Forever Righteous
by erinmorgan
Summary: Be his true vessel a demon or not, the finally-freed Michael is determined to have his apocalypse. He does not care that Castiel and Sam are trying to restore Dean's humanity, and he does not care about the fun Dean is having in his demon lessons with Crowley. He will not stop until he gets what he wants.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** _Hello! I have been given a prompt by tumblr user _high-functioning-nerd_! I know I posted this last night, but - as promised - I proofed it one more time now that I'm properly awake. Sorry for the confusion. You don't have to re-read this if you've already seen it. I've only changed maybe two words and added maybe three sentences. (It was pretty awesome grammar for 1am if I do say so myself!) Anyway, let's all have a moment of silence in respect of Dean, his loss, and Sam, and his even greater loss. Let's also have a moment of silence for a beautiful season finale that ended a not-so-great season, in my opinion. Now... enjoy!~_

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No one dared to speak. No one dared to move. The room was congested with nervous air and skittering angels. Word had just come from the gates that he was back, and no one knew what to think. The fact that they were trying to think scared the angels more because they knew he would punish them for it. He had many reasons to punish them. He had many reasons to be angry. It was what fueled the already-rumored fire that lit his wake.

The enormous, heavy doors in the back of the long, tall room slammed open and everyone jumped to look. The archangel was no different than he had been – except he was entirely different at the same time: he was just as imposing, yet somehow stunted; he was just as commanding, yet somehow inferior; he was just as angelic, yet somehow human.

His grace was as bright and ethereal as ever, yet it stemmed from a solid black focus.

Although everyone suddenly had something to say, no one said it. The only sound in the room was silenced murmurs. The angels only moved to turn in their seats and follow him as he stalked through the center aisle. They looked nowhere but at the powerful archangel whom they once called a commander-in-chief but now a haggard, blackened, rejected soul. He should be receiving a hero's welcome like the prodigal son he legitimately was not this hushed walk of forced authority, but no one moved to provide it.

When he reached the front of the room, he turned around swiftly and clutched the ancient desk behind him with such strength that the cherished wood audibly cracked and splintered. His gaze raked across each and every individual angel in the host. He prolonged the charged silence for as long as he menacingly could before beginning to speak in deadly calm.

"Well, well, look what has happened here. One angel decides to follow his own orders, and Heaven completely crumbles. The scribe of our Lord succeeds in humiliating the rebellious angel but proceeds to destroy our home further. A second civil war in one decade begins, and more than half of our brothers and sisters die for whatever nonsense cause they believed in.

"Do you see, now, what free will does to angels? Of course it is a wonderful concept, but it is not for us. We are meant to follow orders! Because if we don't... Well, as the mud-monkeys say, if we don't, all Hell will break loose, and look at exactly what happened! The self-proclaimed King of Hell has been running amuck while the last Knight of Hell is enjoying some- some vacation time! Meanwhile, I am suffering agonizing torture in the very deepest, lowest pit of Hell with the sleaziest creature in any world watching as one by one my fallen brothers and sisters join me!"

The archangel recomposed himself. Then, he continued in his eerie calm.

"Now. I am finally free and have returned to help, but at a great cost. Our first-fallen brother," he sneered, "clawed his way free before me because that disgusting, rebellious dog freed a part of him without realizing. Therefore, the... pause, one may say, that was placed on the apocalypse, may once again be lifted, and the Lord's plan may finally be fulfilled. I shall procure the Righteous Man's vessel myself while the lot of you find our brother so I may destroy him once and for all."

Upon finishing, he dared the crowd to undermine or demean him again with a steely stare. When someone did, his wrathful face set in stone, his grace flashed blindingly, and the black within him grew tremendously.

"Who shall be your Righteous Man?" a low-ranking foot soldier asked very quietly yet with a strong, clear voice.

"The infamous ass Dean Winchester, of course," Michael growled.

"But... Well, haven't you seen that he is no longer man?"

"He is still righteous."

"He's a demon! He is incredibly far from righteous!" another angel cried in shock and outrage.

"He has always been destined to become a demon. This changes nothing," Michael spat. "His bloodline makes him righteous whether he unwittingly received his birthmark or not."

"It changes everything! He did not simply receive a birthmark, he turned into his birthright! Angels cannot possess demons; it is impossible! It's a worse abomination than the vermin themselves!"

"It will be done."

"It can't be done!"

"It shall be!" the archangel thundered. "I will have Dean Winchester. I will have the apocalypse. I will have Lucifer's and Crowley's heads on a plate!" Michael's wrath caused the building and surroundings to quake and crumble. The angels shrieked in alarm, but no one continued to argue.

The archangel smirked at the host's reaction and said, "I am glad we are in agreement. Now, get to work." Then, he stood and laughed while every angel scurried clumsily to his or her post.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** _Wow, that's a lot of people to follow/favorite a story in a week. Thank you all - I suppose I will continue this!_

_Enjoy! and remember: I run on reviews~_

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Dean felt different. He felt incredibly different. He felt amazing.

It was confusing and exciting at the same time. He was just waking up, but he wasn't groggy. He was lying down, but he was ready for battle. In the back of his mind, he had a feeling that he had died again; and yet, he did not feel any of the usual symptoms. He almost felt like he had when he woke up after Hell, but entirely the opposite at the same time. Dean knew his limbs should feel heavy and his head should be pounding with a migraine to rule all migraines, but that was not the case at all. He was full of energy. His senses were singing. His head was clear. His blood was surging. Dean felt odd with all these new sensations coursing through his body.

Dean felt good.

But someone was talking above him, and it was ruining everything.

His eyes snapped open, and his knuckles tightened around the Blade in his hand. He took a deep breath through his nose, and let it out slowly. Sulfur. The room reeked of sulfur. Or maybe that was just him. He took another deep breath, but paid more attention to where the smells were coming from. Yes, the sulfur was coming from him, but not only him; it came from the figure above him, too. The figure he wanted to shut up. Crowley. The King of Hell. The one who had gotten him into this mess to begin with. Listening to Crowley whine about feeling the way he feels and howling at the moon, every event from the past night returned to Dean's memory. He had died again. The mark had kept him alive – so to speak.

Without a moment's hesitation, his head rolled to face Crowley, and his Blade was at the demon's throat. "What did you do to me?" he asked low and menacing.

"I did not do anything," Crowley said, eyes wide, hands up. "I swear. I meant it when I said that I didn't plan on this. I didn't know there were repercussions to the First Blade. I mean, obviously there were – let's face it, nothing like this, this powerful, comes without a price –"

"Shut. Up," Dean commanded, and Crowley fell silent. Dean sat up in one smooth motion and backed the demon against the wall. Crowley didn't fight, just went with him, and Dean took notice. "Are you afraid of me, Crowley?" he asked with a laugh in his voice.

"W-well, I wouldn't say 'afraid'," Crowley stuttered, "but, um, intimidated, sure."

"Intimidated?" Dean mocked. He twitched his hand holding the Blade just to watch Crowley jump.

"Yes, intimidated, you bastard!" Crowley hissed. "You're a Knight of Hell now! You're like Abaddon except five times worse because you were a Winchester first! If you hated me when you were human, you probably abhor me now."

Dean froze. "I'm a Knight of Hell?" So that's why he felt so, incredibly powerful.

"Well, you not only died in possession of the Blade but also with the bloody mark! I don't actually know how this works, but I'd bet anything that you're a Knight of Hell now, yeah."

Dean took a step backward, but did not quite release Crowley. "So that makes me above you on the food chain, doesn't it?" he asked coyly.

"Above me?" Crowley sputtered. "Never! I'm the king!"

"Yeah," Dean scoffed, "the king who has no subjects."

Crowley made a face and tried to protest, "Why, you little –"

Dean continued, ignoring him. "Crowley, really. You organized Hell – who does that? It was scarier when it was a mess. Believe me, I would know. Few people liked you then, and no one likes you now. Come on, man, you helped us Winchesters how many times now? Why, what did you call us the other day? Oh, that's right, 'practically besties' – who even says that? You fought Abaddon, the born leader of Hell. You got addicted to humanity! What kind of a softy are you? Surely not a demon king. I could go on."

"You insufferable ass!" Crowley cursed. "And what? You think you can just usurp me like that? Dethrone me? Force my abdication? Not a chance."

"Oh, I don't mean to take the throne away from you, Crowley." Dean shuddered for emphasis. "Uhg, never, just, ew. All I want is to continue killing every demon I cross paths with, but that's the usual. If that means using my new intimidation, then so be it."

"Ooh, do your best then," Crowley shuddered sarcastically.

Dean narrowed his eyes at the challenge, enraged by Crowley's change of heart. The demon had just been afraid of him; why was he mocking him now? Dean thought about everything demons had ever done to him with their freaky powers. Did he have those now, too? Well, he'd never find out if he didn't try. He already had Crowley trapped against the wall, what else could he do? He should choke Crowley; that could be fun. But how? When he was a ghost that one time, it had been all about concentration, so he concentrated. He focused on Crowley's neck and imagined it closing in on itself. When nothing happened, he tried lifting his hand and pretending that he was physically fulfilling his goal.

"Oh, grow up," Crowley rolled his eyes. "What are you trying to do? Kill me with the force, Darth Vader?"

"I'm concentrating," Dean growled through gritted teeth.

"Oh, yeah, I can tell," Crowley mocked him. "Well, at least you've got one part down. Look at you, squirrel, not at dumb as I thought you were."

Crowley shoved Dean back a few steps and angrily adjusted his jacket. He brushed his fingers over his shoulders and sighed heavily. Dean sat on the bed again and watched him with interest. Crowley paced in front of the bed with his head pointed down somewhat in thought.

"You really don't want my throne?" he asked stopping to face Dean.

"Dude, no one cares about that throne but you," Dean deadpanned.

"Then what do you want? You really want to continue on as you were? That's insane! You're a demon now! You should want to kill and possess and torture. It's only natural!"

"What's natural to me is killing demons and other monsters. That's all I care about."

"You're going to kill your own kind, then? You do realize you're one of us now, right?"

"I don't care," Dean said with a laugh. "When I was vampire for a day, I spent the day killing vampires. You said it yourself, Crowley: all of my senses and urges and thoughts and feelings… they've been… heightened, and I've always had the urge to kill demons."

"Well, you've got quite a few things to learn before you can go back to it, then," Crowley said.

"Do I now?"

"You want to try and choke me again?" Crowley asked mockingly. Dean only narrowed his eyes. "So you catch my drift then?"

"Where are you going with this Crowley?"

"To a proposal: I'll teach you how use your new demonic abilities and avoid all the new things that can kill you, if you help me reassemble my kingdom."

"You want me to be your personal bodyguard? Please!" Dean scoffed. "And what new things can kill me? It's not like I was invincible before."

"Not a personal bodyguard you, simpleton! A partner!" Crowley corrected angrily. "And if you're invincible now, I dare you to eat a good ol' salty bacon cheeseburger."

"Son of a bitch!" Dean cursed. He hadn't thought that far yet.

"So…"

"No!" Dean exclaimed. "No, I won't be your partner! How about this: you teach me everything I need to know, and I don't kill you?"

"I'm a crossroad demon at heart, Dean. I don't make empty, stupid deals."

"Well, what does 'reassembling your kingdom' entail then?"

"Killing my opponents. Showing the rest of the demon community that we're allies. Pretending to be allies. At the very least, making some appearances for me. Be my right hand man, Dean, come on! You know you want to," Crowley persuaded.

Dean huffed out a breath and shook his head in disbelief. Never in his life did he imagine these events would unfold. He was about to reply with another sarcastic comeback when Crowley held up a finger and tilted his head down as if listening to an announcement over a high school loudspeaker.

"It would seem that your brother is now threatening my life if I don't show up to his summoning. I should probably go calm him down. You continue pretending to be dead. When I come back in here it'll be with him, and we'll 'resurrect' you, alright? Peachy. See you soon!" With that, he disappeared and Dean barked a curse at the empty room.

"Like Hell I'm going to pretend to be dead," Dean scoffed. "The red-eyed bastard!"

Dean stopped. He repeated his words slowly in his head as a sudden thought occurred to him. He ran to a mirror and gasped at the sight of his eyes. Black. Solid, glossy, gleaming black. He knew he should have expected it, but the sight still shocked and intrigued him.

So, he really was a demon. The power coursing through his body was exalted at the fact. He felt good, really he did; however, there was a small part of the back of his mind that protested. It was unsure and insulted. It was outraged. It didn't want to be a demon.

"_If I didn't know you, I'd want to hunt you!"_ His own words echoed back to him.

Well, well, wasn't the situation reversed now? But Dean had wanted to hunt himself for a while now anyway, hadn't he? Ever since he came back from Hell, something hadn't been right with him. He'd been a bit unhinged, never mind how he'd been completely off the rails after Purgatory. Not that it mattered now. Now he didn't have hinges at all, did he? He might as well take that deal with Crowley now. It'd be better to learn how to use his new abilities from someone else than on his own. Besides, making appearances as an intimidating force would not be a horrible thing. It could even be fruitful. If Crowley did manage to get back on top, everyone would know it was Dean's doing that got him there. Moreover, he'd be even closer to Crowley than ever, so if he ever wanted or needed to kill him, he'd surely be able to.

Dean blinked. He didn't know how long he had been staring at his reflection, but he had to move now. There was noise on the stairs. Light, calm footsteps followed by heavy, frantic ones. A brogue was trying to soothe a screamer. Something was said about everything being okay, and hadn't you sworn you wouldn't care if your brother died again anyway?

Dean shook his head and tried to clear the black out his eyes. It took some time, but the old green and white came back eventually. Even though he was running out of time, he took another moment to sigh in relief and appreciate the color of his irises. They'd probably be a rare sight, but for now, they were a pleasant sight for sore eyes.

Laughing at his own stupid pun, Dean stalked out of the bathroom down the hall until the footsteps were echoing away from him. He found himself in the kitchen, and sat staring at the refrigerator hopelessly. He wasn't hungry. Shouldn't he be hungry? He just woke up from the dead. Every other time he did this, he woke up hungry. But, no, he didn't want food; he wanted to stretch his legs. That was a good idea, right? A long walk, some fresh air, a chance to clear his head – it'd be good for him. Dean climbed the stairs to the door of the bunker and tried to turn the handle, but the skin of his palm practically burnt off when he touched it. He cursed under his breath and tried to regain control. Apparently, he wasn't getting out anytime soon.

The footsteps came toward him again, and he felt a new urge – one to hide. He couldn't let Sam see him like this. Not just yet. It would destroy his brother and maybe him, too. Dean leapt off the platform and landed silently on all fours. Then he crawled under the main table just in time to avoid Sam and Crowley walking through the room.

"You will fix him!" Sam was shouting, dragging Crowley roughly by the upper arm.

"I keep telling you, I can't fix him, Moose! He's dead!" Crowley cried, futilely resisting. The demon still thought Dean was playing along and pretending to be dead in his room so he wasn't fighting Sam. He thought he was in control of this game, but Dean would make sure he wasn't.

Once they passed, Dean came out from under the table and snuck through the corridor to the old control room. There he slid down the wall, bent his knees in front of himself, and cradled his head in his hands.

"What am I gonna do?" he whispered to himself. "I can't hide forever. Sam'll find me if Crowley doesn't sniff me out first." He sat in pity and thought for moment. "Should I call Cas?" he randomly thought. "He might know what to do, being an angel and all... Can I still call Cas?" he corrected himself depressed. "Oh, come on! Why couldn't I just die this time?"

As if in answer, the mark on his forearm singed his skin. He realized that he was still holding the Blade when he looked hopelessly down at it. It was asking him to kill again. No, it was telling him to kill again. At the mark's not-so-gentle reminder, the demon inside Dean came to life again. His vision sharpened, and he knew his eyes had turned black again. A shiver went down his spine and his hair stood on end. Why was he moping around, feeling sorry for himself like a coward when he could be taking advantage of the brat be called a brother and the demon who thought he was taking advantage of him?

While he stood to present himself proudly to Sam and Crowley, loud, insistent pounding nearly broke down the door. His new senses told him it was an angel. His new survival instincts told him to run.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: **_W__ow, this is a super fast update from me! Truth is, I sat in on the "My First Novel" panel at BookCon today and became really inspired by one of the debut authors who spoke so I cranked this out as soon as I got home. Anyway, please review and let me know if this story is worth continuing. I know where I want to go with it, but I must warn you, it's probably going to be a long journey there. I'll stop rambling now and let you get to reading..._

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"Where is he?" Sam asked. His vengeful shouting stopped short. Suddenly, his voice was soft and quiet, purely confused. It was scarier that way – not that Sam intended it to be, but he did appreciate the way it made Crowley jump.

"That is a very good question," Crowley agreed, taking the opportunity to put some distance between himself and Sam.

The bed was empty. The First Blade was gone. The bedclothes were disturbed as if Dean had sat up and moved around on his bed, but Dean himself was nowhere to be seen. The room was otherwise undisturbed and exactly as Sam had left it when he laid his dead brother down.

"Where is my brother, Crowley?" Sam asked. "Where is Dean? What happened to him?"

"I don't know!" Crowley shouted. "I don't, honest. How could I?"

"Well, you're gonna find him," Sam said.

"I am?"

"Yes, you are. You're going to go and search the globe for him with your demon abilities and bring him back here. Alive. Good as new."

"Sam, I don't know if I can do that," Crowley said, taking a step back. "He died, Sam. He was killed. If you don't want to make a deal and he's not even here, I don't know what I can do for you," Crowley reasoned, aiming for calm but missing the mark. "I really wouldn't know where to start. Now, if you were willing to make a deal, then maybe I could snap my fingers and potentially – potentially! – fix everything, but since you're not, I'm practically powerless." The demon wasn't trying to trick Sam into making a deal, only reason with him. Sam recognized that and back-pedaled just a bit. Still, this was Crowley; he couldn't be just reasoning. He had to have an endgame.

"I thought you were the great King of Hell, Crowley. Now you're telling me you're powerless?" Sam asked. He didn't mean it mockingly, but it came out that way anyway.

"I must admit that my addiction to humanity destroyed me more than I thought it did. Although I'm clean now, I still, ah, feel some of its, its, effects. Besides, as everyone is so keen to point out, I don't have any subjects anymore and, therefore, less power," Crowley explained bitterly. Sam narrowed his eyes in disbelief. Crowley would never admit so much fault if he didn't have leverage to manipulate. He definitely knew something. "I'm practically a regular crossroads demon again. It's disgusting."

"Well, boohoo for you," Sam sneered. "You know something."

"What?" Crowley exclaimed too quickly. "No, I don't!"

"Yes, you do," Sam stated, stepping toward Crowley.

"What could I possibly know?" Crowley sputtered, retreating.

"I don't know that yet," Sam said, advancing on Crowley still. "I don't care what it means you have to do, Crowley," Sam backed the demon into the bed table, "but you're going to d-"

Raucous, obnoxious, insistent knocking at the bunker door interrupted Sam. Crowley swore, looking petrified, but before Sam could ask again what he knew, a piercing mechanical screeching filled the bunker.

Sam dropped to the bed with his hands over his ears. His eyes flicked up to Crowley's, then to the door, and then back to Crowley. Crowley was standing stock-still, glancing between Sam and the door of Dean's room.

"Don't look at me, moose," Crowley said when he noticed Sam's searching gaze. "This is your secret clubhouse. I didn't invite anyone."

Sam rolled his eyes and increased the pressure on his ears as the shrill noise intensified. With much effort, he made his way to the door frame and leaned against it as he glanced down both ends of the hall. No one was present. Nothing stirred. The penetrating noise was the only thing amiss and was beginning to make Sam's ears bleed.

Then, suddenly, there was silence.

Shocked, Sam released his ears but warily kept his hands raised near them. They were still ringing uncomfortably. He wiped the blood from his cheeks and looked to Crowley again for anything.

"Whatever it is, it's definitely outside," Sam thought out loud, his voice a whisper. "Nothing can get in unless we open it for them. The bunker's anti-everything: humans, demons, angels, whatever."

"Well, whoever it is wants to come in," Crowley said unhelpfully at a normal volume. Sam flinched, and Crowley smirked.

"Maybe not," he whispered. He glanced around again. "He's not attacking. He's not even very demanding, just… annoying."

"Samuel Winchester, let me in."

"There goes that," Crowley stated.

The voice sounded all around the bunker, so Sam couldn't pinpoint its origin. It was deep, grated, and incredibly loud. It reverberated off the walls and echoed in Sam's hurt ears. For some reason, he thought he recognized it, but at the same time, it was completely foreign.

Sam aimed an unamused look at Crowley, and asked pointedly, "Why didn't that sound hurt you?"

"I'm a demon. I'm not fragile like you. Angels' voices hurt our ears, but only one won't make us bleed."

"Angel?" Sam asked, latching onto the first helpful thing Crowley had said all day.

"What, you don't recognize the true voice of your brother-in-law?" Crowley quipped.

"Castiel?" Sam exclaimed.

"Let me in!" the voice thundered.

Sam made to run for the door, and Crowley's words stopped him in the hall.

"At least, I think it's Castiel. If not and you let him in, you're screwed."

"Only I'm screwed?"

"You're even stupider than I gave you credit for if you think I'm sticking around to party with whoever it is."

Sam groaned in frustration and dragged Crowley to the main room. There was pounding on the door again, as if the person outside sensed they were close. With a withering look and silent order to Crowley to stay, Sam climbed the staircase and slowly unlocked the heavy door. Before he admitted the angel inside, however, Sam stopped to think.

"Hey," Sam asked loudly so that whoever was outside would hear but think he was talking to someone inside the bunker with him. He nodded at Crowley to play along. The demon stared at him like he was inane. "Do your prefer Star Trek or Star Wars?"

The demon's jaw practically dropped. "Are you really asking me that right now?" Crowley hissed. Sam rolled his eyes exaggeratedly and motioned to Crowley to act like he didn't know. "Did your brother's death unhinge you, moose? Here I thought you'd gotten used to him dying." Sam glared at Crowley.

"He won't answer because the two are apparently incomparable; though I think I would prefer Star Trek because the ordering of the Star Wars movies seems illogical and pretentious. Why would they produce the last three movies before the first three if they always planned to produce the first three eventually?" the voice called annoyed yet thoughtful. "And if you are trying to bait me into revealing my identity, you could have simply asked," the voice boomed, angrily. "Sam, it is Castiel. Now let me in!"

Sam tugged open the heavy bunker door, and admitted a haggard-looking Castiel. His clothes were dirty, his face was covered in blood, and his knees were knocking together as if they could no longer support the rest of his body. Sam caught him before he hit the ground and half-dragged, half-carried him to a chair below. When the angel was settled, Sam eyed Crowley distrustfully but left him with Castiel so he could fetch water and a first aid kit. While the human was gone, the demon and angel stared at each other distrustfully and uncomfortably.

"Been a long time," Crowley commented conversationally.

"Not long enough," Castiel answered curtly.

"Well, aren't you still a shiny ball of grace," Crowley remarked with a scoff. He moved away to examine the map-table in the middle of the room.

"Sam, you know that you do not need to patch me up as you do your brother or yourself after hunts," Castiel argued when he saw the items in the younger Winchester's hands as he returned. He batted Sam's hands away and sat forward in the chair.

"I don't know, Cas," Sam replied, biting his lip and hovering like a concerned mother. "You don't look so good. Why haven't you healed yourself yet?"

"The journey here took more energy than I expected it to; granted my unusually rapid flight speed was especially taxing. I am not accustomed to flying so fast for so long," he answered.

"So, what," Sam asked, "you don't have the juice to heal yourself?"

"If you would like to phrase it that way, yes."

"Cas, this looks a lot like the first time you, uh, fell for... us," Sam points out sheepishly.

Castiel scrutinized Sam through narrowed eyes and a head-tilt. "Well, it's not my doing this time. The grace I'm using is not my own, and I'm slowly burning it out."

"And you flew all the way here, practically diminishing your grace, for Dean – I'm only guessing?" Crowley snarked, returning his attention to the other men in the room.

Castiel looked at him intently. "Yes, of course," he said. "Where is he? I might be able to save him," the angel told Sam, sitting forward.

"Save him?" he and Crowley exclaimed at the same time. Whereas Sam was shocked and hopeful, Crowley was anxious and disappointed.

"Yes," Castiel said, looking between Sam and Crowley, "maybe. I'm not sure. It will destroy all of my remaining stolen grace, but it is worth a try."

"Whoa, whoa, Cas," Sam cautioned, holding out his hands in a preventive gesture, "you need the grace you have. You can't waste it all on Dean. Isn't there any other angel who can do it?"

"I do not think there are any other angels strong enough," Castiel said.

"Castiel," Crowley said slowly, looking nervously at Sam, "I know that you're a big name in Heaven now, but if you're running on stolen grace, are you strong enough to do whatever it is?" He emphasized Castiel in his question and honestly sounded concerned, not as if he was playing to an endgame. For a moment, Sam forgot about his suspicions.

Castiel glared at Crowley. "I have to try."

"Well, Cas, what exactly is it that you are going to do?" Sam pressed.

Castiel stated as if it was obvious, "Heal him."

"But Cas, he died," Sam swallowed past a lump in his throat. "You can't just heal a dead person."

"Angels can in special circumstances," Castiel insisted. "Now, let me see him," he demanded, pushing his chair back to stand up but almost falling over without its support.

Sam quickly grabbed him again before he went down and held him up for a second to examine him. "That's it," he said, "I'm cleaning you up."

He motioned for Crowley to grab the water and first kit and again half-dragged Castiel, this time en route to Dean's room. Castiel fell heavily onto the bed, looking like he would pass out at any moment. Sam took the medical supplies and water from Crowley, who was rolling his eyes and huffing at the activity, and made Castiel drink while he opened the first-aid kit. Then, he knelt on the floor in front of Castiel to minister to him, using a wet cloth to clean Castiel's face first and treating the individual cuts next. As soon as he was unneeded again, Crowley moved toward the door.

"Well, if you're just playing house now, I'll be off," Crowley announced.

But Sam called him back, "Don't you dare go anywhere yet. When Cas gets back on his feet, you're going to help him heal Dean."

"Is it National Impossible Requests Day?" Crowley quipped. "I can't do that either!"

"You will find a way," Sam growled, looking fully at Crowley to increase his words' impact.

The demon rolled his eyes again and held his hands up in surrender. As Sam finished helping the angel, the demon sulked in a corner.

"Here, Cas," Sam offered gently when he finished, "drink again." He handed him the glass of water. The angel obliged by sipping at it with a look of distaste. "What's wrong?" Sam asked, immediately worrying the water was bad. It wouldn't surprise him; after all, when one thing went bad for Winchesters, everything that possibly could followed.

"You were right before," Castiel stated lethargically, taking a longer drink. "I'm practically fallen again. I feel human."

"I'm sorry, man," Sam said, otherwise at a loss for words.

"Although I do not need your pity, I thank you for your sympathy," Castiel said, forcing his words to carry some power. "When may I see Dean?"

"You should rest, Cas," Sam said awkwardly.

"I will not try anything. I only wish to see Dean."

"No, Cas. You can't even stand on your own. I'm not letting you walk around the bunker with grand ideas until you rest first."

Castiel narrowed his eyes again. "Sam, where is your brother?"

"Cas, I told you–"

"Yes, and I heard you the first time," Castiel snapped. "Tell me where your brother is. This is obviously his room; and yet, he is not here. I would have thought that since you now have a home, of sorts, you would have laid him here until you figured out how to bring him back, so why is he not here?"

"Well, uh," Sam began. "It's a funny story."

"Sam," Castiel asked very slowly, "did you lose your brother's body?"

Sam stammered embarrassed, and Crowley was quick to rub it in.

"Yeah, he did," the demon stated from his corner. "That's why I'm here. To find him."

"Samuel Winchester!" Castiel bellowed. "You insolent–" Castiel cut off as if the shouting took too much effort. He coughed a few times and hung his head in his hands. "How could you possibly–" He cut off again and took a deep breath. "Where was he last?"

"Uh, in here," Sam said, looking around and anywhere but at Castiel.

"Who else was in here last?"

"Myself?" Sam said, feeling worse with each question. "Cas, you know that no one else is ever in the bunker."

"Do you suggest that he stood up and walked away on his own then?" Castiel deadpanned.

"Well," Crowley muttered with an ambiguous gesture.

"What?" Sam demanded. "Dammit, Crowley, what do you know?"

"Not know," he refuted petulantly, "just think."

"Well, would you like to share your thoughts, then?" Castiel suggested, barely holding in his temper.

"Not particularly," Crowley said, suddenly very interested in the few things hanging on Dean's walls.

"Talk, Crowley," Sam barked.

"Fine! Your boy's a demon!" Crowley exclaimed. "Rather, he might be. I don't actually know. I haven't seen him yet, so I can't tell you." The lie came easily since it is was so much simpler than he expected he had to concoct.

"What?" Sam squawked.

Crowley sighed heavily and cursed himself under his breath. "Angel lover boy here will smell it on him anyway," he sighed. "Dean is a demon. The mark turned him into one. I didn't know it would happen, I swear, I didn't, but it did. God, don't you two smell the sulfur?" he asked with exasperation. "Even I'm choking on it."

"I thought that was just you," Sam commented snidely.

"What?" Crowley gasped. "I don't have an odor! I hate those demons that you can smell a mile away. Unsanitary and disloyal! No, that sulfur is Dean. You see, when a demon is born there's this… well, it's practically an explosion of sulfur."

"And you didn't think to tell us this earlier?" Sam asked. "Maybe before you took Dean to get the Blade in the first place?"

"I didn't know it would happen! I didn't expect him to die! I had a thought it would, but I didn't know for sure."

"You still could have warned us!"

"I'm a demon, Sam! Stop expecting the best from everyone all the time and start realizing who certain people are," Crowley snapped.

Calmly from his seat on the bed, Castiel spoke softly, "It does not matter who knew what when. What matters now is fixing it. Sam, do you still remember the ritual to save a demon?"

"Um, yeah, of course," Sam said confused. "It's pretty simple. I mean, takes a lot of blood, but since this isn't for a trial, it probably doesn't have to be mine, so we could jus–"

"Good," Castiel interrupted him wearily. "After we track him down, we will convert him back to humanity."

"Do you think that will save him completely?" Sam asked thoughtfully.

"What do you mean?" Castiel asked.

"Well, in the Men of Letters' tapes, the demon they converted stayed alive after the whole ritual-thing. Do you think Dean will stay alive after, too?"

"Was the demon dead before the ritual?" Castiel asked.

"Doesn't a person have to be dead to be a true demon? I mean, if it was just possession, you can just exorcise the damn thing and leave the person well."

"I'm standing right here," Crowley drawled.

"Yeah, so give us some answers," Sam retorted.

Crowley sighed and rolled his eyes. "Yes, for a demon to be born the person has to die and go through Hell."

"So, what does that mean?" Sam asked impatiently.

"I would think that, yes, the ritual saves the meatsuit," Crowley said, and Sam's face lit up hopefully. "As long," Crowley continued in a demoralizing tone, "as long as the meatsuit does not have any fatal wounds that will kill it instantly."

"Fatal wounds," Sam repeated. "Like the knife wound through Dean's gut."

"Precisely," Crowley agreed cheerfully.

"But, Castiel, you can heal that, can't you? It'd just be like a regular healing," Sam insisted. "You wouldn't have to use so much grace as to bring him back from the dead. We'll knock him out after we find him, you'd heal the wound, and then I'd convert him back to humanity, and it'll all be okay!"

"For a man who is surrounded by death, killing, and failure, you are very optimistic at the smallest of chances," Castiel stated.

"Thanks?" Sam replied.

"I, for one," Crowley offered, "am not enthusiastic about this plan. It's full of thoughts and possibilities and maybes…" His list trailed off with vague hand gestures.

"It's the best we've got though," Sam contended. "It's worth a try! You know, Crowley, you sound like you want him to remain a demon."

Crowley gasped in shock. "Oh, do I?" he asked mockingly. "Gee, a Winchester demon? Someone who's sort of an ally to me and feared by every other demon and supernatural creature in the world thanks to his résumé, kill-first-ask-later reputation, and no-one-gets-a-pass attitude? No, that would be ridiculous. Why ever would I hope for that?"

"You're… ridiculous," Sam came back weakly. He shook his head and rolled his eyes, too tired to argue. Whether Crowley helped or not, he didn't care at this point. What mattered was Dean, and Crowley didn't factor into his new plan anyway.

Castiel thought for a long time, looking intently at both Sam and Crowley in turn. Finally, he said, "Although Crowley is right that there is much uncertainty and many fallible factors to this plan, it may work. It will be extremely difficult, but if we work together, it may be done."

"Does that include me?" Crowley sighed dramatically.

"Yes," Sam snapped.

"Bugger."


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** _I know this took a long time, and I apologize, but graduation, college orientation, and my first week at work got in the way. Expect long waits between chapters throughout the summer... Sorry! I really am._

_In other news. I loved writing this chapter so much. I had so, so much fun with it. I hope you do, too..._

* * *

"Well, I'm screwed," Dean mumbled under his breath. From his seat on the hall floor outside the room his brother was holding court in, he heard everything. "Does my opinion not matter anymore? I'm hurt," he sarcastically asked no one too loudly. Instead of waiting around to see if anyone answered, he scooped up his Blade and sulked back down the hall into a more secluded area to rethink his situation.

"So, now, I've got a pissed off angel to worry about, too," Dean thought out loud. "That's just great. I mean, yeah – it's fun to mess with his head. Those feelings I pretended I didn't have before? They're going to be so much fun to exploit now, but still..."

Dean walked leisurely around the laundry room, entranced by thoughts of all previously tense moments he and Castiel had shared and by wondering how he could manipulate similar ones now. He tried not to think about the devastated and enraged tone Castiel had used but focused instead on the good relationship between his human self and the angel; hopefully, it would keep the angel from attacking and killing him. That last hope for his humanity and those lingering feelings of friendship and all.

When Dean realized where he was, he scoffed. There was absolutely nothing special about the laundry room that he'd retreated to it now; it just seemed to be there. When he was human, it was a nice, quiet room that he knew his brother would always end up in eventually, so it was a good place to lay in wait when they needed to talk. Maybe that sense of familiarity drew him to it. The demon inside him shuddered at the sentiment.

This time, however, the room was neither nice nor quiet. All of a sudden, everything around him seemed... fuller. The clothes were brighter. The dirt was darker. The detergents were nauseating. The smell of sweat was worse, but the smell of blood was sweeter. The machines roared louder and were more annoying than Dean remembered or appreciated. Now that he was painfully aware of them, he could barely hear his thoughts over them. Dean pulled out a chair to sit down at the now shiny though disgusting table and flinched at the loud screech of the legs across the rickety floor. His head whipped worriedly to stare down whoever was about to charge into the room at the intrusion, but, to Dean's surprise, no one did.

So, he sat there, turning the First Blade over in his hands lazily and staring angrily at the loud laundry machines, deciding what to do. He had a lot to think about: what to do now, where to go now, what abilities he had now, how to use them, etc. Surely, the first thing he had to do was leave the bunker. He could definitely not live with a hunter, former familial relation or naught, and certainly not if the hunter was best friends with a renegade angel. So he had to leave. But how did he leave? His brother knew he was a demon. He wouldn't just let Dean walk out the door! Not that it was an option anyway; like Sam had said, the bunker was demon-proof, there was no getting in or out without help. Not that Dean even knew what he would do or where he would go after getting out of the bunker, anyway. He was a demon and wanted to cause some destruction, sure, but where did he start? He definitely was not going to Hell to get orders, but he wasn't taking any from Crowley either.

"But if I'm a Knight of Hell like Crowley thinks I am, I don't need another douche to give me orders," Dean slowly thought out loud, straightening with intrigue. "That still doesn't solve what I'm going to do." Dean slumped again in defeat.

For the briefest second, he dreamed about taking Hell from Crowley and truly making it into a torture chamber. He saw himself draped lazily but authoritatively over the black gold throne of Hell, ruling with his Blade and Lucifer's crown, banishing Crowley to Tartarus, and ordering the lesser demons and human souls alike into harrowing cells to entertain the likes of demons such as Alastair and Meg to be played with and flayed mercilessly for entertainment. Maybe he would even take part in the fun himself every now and then, flinging holy water here, cracking jaws there, slicing with these blades, stabbing with those short, jagged edges, twisting that limb, and crushing this bone...

The image of the throne, however, had Dean laughing before he could seriously contemplate the others, and he was back to feeling purposeless.

"Who knew being a demon was actually hard?" he exclaimed with frustration, feeling trapped by the small room and the boisterous machines. Now that he saw all of his dilemmas and that glorious image of freedom on the throne, he was getting stir-crazy. He shoved away from the chair, causing the loud screeching again and instinctively fell into a defensive position facing the door. His Blade stuck straight out in front of him, practically glowing in the hopes of a fight. Dean stood like that for a moment before feeling ridiculous and relaxing. He was up pacing again because at least it involved movement, when Crowley suddenly spoke from the corner.

"Well, aren't you hopeless!"

Dean was startled but still proud of himself for not jumping a foot in the air. "Shut up, Crowley!" he barked. "What do you want?" he asked after a second, aiming to sound nonplussed. It was difficult, but he kept the Blade inconspicuously at his side.

"I thought we were going to scratch each other's backs," Crowley said, stepping into the room, "remember?" Dean made a noncommittal hum. "But then again, you bailed on me when I told you to stay, and now everything's complicated!" Crowley exclaimed.

Dean only shrugged. "What, like Sam wasn't going to figure it out the second he saw me lying there? Or better, the second I woke up?"

"Well, obviously! The moose isn't that stupid!" Crowley sneered. "But if you had just worked with me, we could've spun it in a better way that didn't result in him using me to make you human again!"

"Crowley, there's no other way that would've gone!" Dean argued. "Sam hates demons more than any other supernatural thing out there. He lost his mother, his girlfriend, his father, and now his brother to demons? How did you think he was going to respond?"

"That was," Crowley paused, "astute," he finally settled on with amazement.

"Yeah," Dean replied, equally shocked.

As if to reassure Dean that he was okay, Crowley said in pacifying voice, "It's the demon senses."

"Hey!" Dean shouted in offence.

"Oh, shut up!" Crowley sighed. "Look, do you want to learn how to be a demon or not?"

Dean's mouth was a hard line as he stared down Crowley. "Aren't you supposed to detain me and help Sam cure me?"

"Yeah, but you know better than I do that (a) I'm going to be of little help whether I try to be or not and (2)-"

"Two doesn't come after a."

Crowley glared at the proudly smirking Dean and corrected himself, "and (b) that plan is going to take ages to put into place."

"Yeah, because you're not cooperating. How very Crowley of you," Dean commented snidely. Before the other demon could respond, Dean asked, "Don't you have a 'kingdom' to reestablish?" using air-quotes. "Or you know, a kingdom to convince everyone of? Abaddon's dead. Everything's all messed up. You should really be down there to refresh the morale of the troops," he said mockingly.

"Listen here, you ungrateful stool," Crowley spat, and Dean only smirked wider. "Just because you're a demon now doesn't mean I can't still do this." Dean was suddenly thrown painfully against the wall and paralyzed there. "Or this." Dean felt his throat tightening as if an invisible hand was squeezing it. "Or this." Dean's head bounced against the wall hard enough to crack and put a hole through the concrete. "Or this." Dean's grip on the Blade slacked considerably, and his face flushed with fear; however, Crowley could not completely pry the thing from his hands, so he gave up, content that he had at least horrified Dean some. "So you should stop testing me until you figure out how to do it, too, yeah?" he threatened an inch from Dean's face.

"Fine!" Dean choked, making sure his spit hit Crowley face without actually spitting at him. "Let me – down… you bastard!"

"As you wish," Crowley hummed. He backed a few steps away and let Dean drop unceremoniously to the floor in a painful heap. Now that Dean was cooperating, he straightened his stance and put his hands in his pockets to appear harmless and innocent. He was the only one smirking now. Dean stood heavily and massaged his throat with one hand while defensively tightening his grip around the Blade with his other.

"So you're just going to give me demon lessons?" Dean asked dubiously with a hoarse voice. "Free of charge? I still don't buy it."

"Free of charge?" Crowley spluttered. "Of course not free of charge! Who do you think I am?"

"Well, what then?" Dean hissed.

"As previously agreed," Crowley hissed back, "you will help me regain my followers so that I may, as you so graciously stated, reestablish my kingdom."

"Crowley?" Sam shouted from the hall outside. "Crowley! I swear to God, you get out here right now! Where are you, you ass?"

"I think that's my cue," Crowley stage-whispered to Dean. As Sam's footsteps grew closer, he whispered conspiratorially, "Play along this time!"

"Moose! In here! I've found him!" Crowley shouted anxiously. His eyes went wide, and he looked like he was fretting. Confused and nervous, Dean squat down a bit into a defensive position again. He didn't know how Sam would regard him, and he didn't want to start a fight, but he didn't want to be caught off guard either. Then again, Dean thought straightening into a normal standing position just before his brother burst into the room, he always could take his brother easily in a fight. There was no need to prepare.

Sam came in shouting. He stomped up to Crowley without even noticing his brother. "Stop running off, you ass! Cas and I need you to figure out how we're going to restore Cas and fast. Dean is stuck in the bunker, and he knows it. We can search for him later. I doubt he'll try to cause any trouble so soon. Dean's stupid, but not that stupid."

"Hey!" Dean exclaimed. With a coy grin, he rolled his eyes and greeted his brother. "Sammy! Still mad, I see. How are you? I heard I came down with a real bad flu, huh? I been out long?"

Sam spun around in shock and stared at Dean with wide eyes. His mouth floundered open for a moment until he composed himself and snapped it shut. With narrowed eyes and measured anger, he said, "You're still out, Dean. Can you even hear me in there?"

"Of course I can hear you, Sammy! I'm right here!" Dean replied cheerfully.

"Shut up for a minute would you? I'm trying to reach my brother," Sam retorted.

"I am your brother, Sammy," Dean goaded.

"Don't call me Sammy," Sam threatened.

"But that's your name," Dean said. "Bitch!" Dean added in the usual tone. When Sam didn't respond, he explained obnoxiously, "See, this is where you say jerk."

"Not to you."

"Aw, come on, Sammy!" Dean continued to goad. "We spent so much time family bonding this year! Lighten up!"

"If you were really Dean you'd know that we spent most of the year pissed at each other," Sam shot back.

"Yeah, isn't that trademark Winchester bonding? Come on, I died again! Doesn't that hit the reset button no matter what?" Dean reasoned. Then he laughed, "I mean, especially after those sappy lines I spewed while dying in your arms! Was that a chick flick or what? Sad part is I actually meant them all while I was hu–"

"Just shut up!" Sam bellowed, punching Dean in the face. It barely hurt Dean, but the skin of Sam's knuckles cracked. Regardless, Dean put on a show of holding his face and stumbling back in pain. He even accidentally dropped his Blade, and it clattered a few feet away. Only Crowley seemed to notice this, and it piqued his interest.

"Sam," Crowley began slowly while the younger Winchester advanced on his brother, "this is your brother." Even after making the statement, he looked curiously at Dean. The new demon had definitely fooled Sam, but Crowley wasn't buying it.

"No, it's not, Crowley," Sam exclaimed incredulous. "It's a demon!" He turned his body to face Crowley, but kept his eyes on Dean. Crowley was the one who said Dean was a demon in the first place! Crowley was a demon! Wouldn't he know another when he saw one? It was obvious, Sam thought. "Dean, you need to fight him," Sam insisted, his voice softening some. "You can do it!"

The only person Dean had to fight right now was Sam because he wouldn't shut up.

Wait, where was the First Blade?

"Sam, stop," Crowley warned.

"What? No!"

"Sam, please. Stop," Crowley tried again with more force.

"Why?"

"Because it may be a demon, but it's also Dean," Crowley explained patiently.

"Oh, obviously!" Sam rolled his eyes and gave Crowley his most exasperated expression. "He's being possessed. I know. Now help me get through to Dean."

"Sam, no," Crowley breathed heavily with fatigue. "Will you stop and listen?"

Feeling left out of a conversation all about him, Dean did his best impersonation of his father and barked, "Sam, shut up and listen!" to gain back some of the attention.

To everyone's surprise, Dean sounded exactly like John. While Crowley only looked confused, Sam looked scared. Dean, too, was slightly afraid of himself at the moment, but he kept his face carefully masked with a grin.

He cleared his throat. "Crowley. You were saying?" He waved the First Blade in a rolling gesture to prompt the older demon to continue. The weapon in his hand caught his attention and he blinked at it, confused for a moment, before returning his attention to Crowley. When had he picked that up?

"Er, yeah," Crowley said as a question. "Right!" he said with a quick shake of his head, as if remembering himself. "Right. Sam, that. Is. Dean. It is Dean."

"I am Dean!" Dean echoed hypnotically.

"Shut up, you," Crowley ordered. Turning his attention back to Sam, he continued, "Dean died and became a demon. He did not die and become possessed by one – he died and became one. That is his body and his mind and his demon. There's no one else inside that skull except Squirrel. Granted, he may not have all of his nuts," Crowley added snidely with a smirk, "but it is Squirrel nonetheless."

"That's actually Dean?" Sam asked slowly in a heartbroken tone.

"Yes," Crowley breathed with relief that Sam finally understood.

"Why so disappointed, Sammy?" Dean asked cheerfully.

Sam visibly bit the inside of his cheek to calm himself down, and Dean watched him with interest. The next few moments would decide how Sam was going to treat Dean's new persona. It was important to Dean that he noticed everything. For example, the way his jaw continued to twitch after he released his cheek or the way his hands clenched at his sides but one came up to chin and back down. Dean could not define a verdict, but he definitely knew it was not in his favor. Perhaps Sam was holding out hope for his humanity, but he wasn't so dumb as to depend on it.

"This changes everything," Sam said quietly, almost to himself, looking down and taking a few thoughtful steps away. "If we, if we – convert you... back to humanity, then..."

"Then what?" Dean asked bristling at all this talk of reaffirming his humanity. What if he liked being a demon? He hated being human; t was painful and boring.

"Then we might exorcise you and lose you completely."

"As in I'd be sent to Hell?" Dean asked. "No, thank you."

Sam made a puzzled face at Dean before agreeing, "No. You're not going back there. We'll figure something else out."

"Gee, thanks, Sammy," Dean said. "I knew I could count on you." He knew, of course, that Sam was completely wrong in his thinking, but it didn't hurt to lead him astray in order to preserve his demonhood.

"Except, you don't have to, you idiot," Crowley sighed dramatically. He put his head in his hands and cursed Winchester stupidity. Dean sighed as well, cursing Crowley for speaking up.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked with guarded hope.

"Think about it, Moose!" Crowley exclaimed with exasperation. "What does an exorcism do?"

"It sends demons back to Hell," Sam answered pleasantly. "Would you like to demonstrate for you, Crowley?"

"Very funny, Moose," Crowley spat. "What does your fancy ritual do?"

"It makes demons human."

"Exactly! And don't you think it'll be even easier if the demon and the human are the same person?" Crowley let that sink in. "God, why am I even telling you this?" he muttered to himself.

"Yes, Crowley," Castiel asked in a booming voice from the doorway. "Why are you telling him this?"

Sam ran to support the angel, but Castiel pushed him away. He walked slowly over the Dean in a gait that meant to look strong and purposeful but actually looked calculated and difficult. As he stood in front of Dean, he examined his face, his hair, his shoulders. He even sniffed the air around Dean and held back a gag at what he received.

"You disgust me," Castiel hissed.

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Dean replied easily.

"If Sam's plan does not work, I will exorcise and smite you myself," the angel stated fiercely.

"Fine by me," Dean said, "but why do we always have to be in end-of-the-world situations for you to get all badass and domineering? I like you a lot better this way." He smirked, winked, and pushed through Castiel's shoulder to exit the laundry room. "What's it take for a demon to get a sandwich around here?" he called as he turned the corner and abandoned everyone.

Dean heard Sam sigh and Crowley mutter, "Even more insufferable!" But while he was focusing on what Crowley was saying to Sam, Dean did not see Castiel appear in his path again. When he almost walked into him, he brought the Blade up in front of his face instinctively, and Castiel tore it from his grip.

He gasped in actual pain as he was severed from his Blade. Castiel stared into his eyes ferociously as he began to glow and expand in a brilliant white light. The lights of the bunker dimmed and his huge wings were silhouetted against the wall behind them. The Blade was the only dark shadow in his powerful display, and it was soon broken in consequence. The shadows of his wings – now more defined to Dean's eyes with actual, luminous blue feathers – curved sturdily downward, and visibly using all of his strength, Castiel shattered the First Blade over his knee.

Dean screamed in agony as his life force sprinkled to the floor, and he collapsed with it. His lungs and throat ran dry and scratchy long before he stopped screaming, but he couldn't hear himself or anything else over the static suddenly filling his mind. His brother was at his side in an instant, but Dean shoved him away in disgust. It took him a long time, but he was finally able to force shallow breaths into his lungs. He pushed himself to his knees to find Castiel on the floor across from him, whimpering in pain as well. With much effort, Dean crawled the few feet to the angel, threw his entire body weight into an elbow blow to the ribs, and punched him perfectly on the jaw. Castiel was in too much pain to fight back, so Dean proceeded to take out his anger on the angel's face until he could not breathe any more and had no strength to pull back his arm.

At that eventual moment, Crowley and Sam separated the two and dragged them to opposite sides of the control room, far apart, with the main table obstructing their view of and path to each other. It didn't matter though, because all Dean could see was red. The room was filled with air as red and thick as blood. The table was coated in it. The walls dripped with it. He saw Crowley standing over him through a red haze, and he could not tell if the furious and anxious expression on the older demon's face was his own or one projected upon him by Dean's mind. He wanted his Blade to properly exact his revenge, but he couldn't get it. He needed that Blade.

He needed it!

It made him who he was both literally and figuratively. The Blade was the reason he was a demon. It was the reason he didn't die when Metatron fatally stabbed him. Was he going to die now? It certainly felt like it. Dean's breath left him again, and he began to hyperventilate. The pain in his chest multiplied, and his limbs began to tingle from lack of blood circulation. His vision clouded, black mingling with red until finally he simply couldn't see, though he pried his eyes open. His hands were useless and malfunctioning. His ears still hadn't opened. Though it took some time for his mind to quiet, Dean eventually slipped into a silent, dark unconsciousness.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN:** _I know that this looks dull, but I'm setting stuff up..._

* * *

Adriel watched anxiously from the doorway, afraid to approach. He had to update Michael on the garrison's progress in the hunt for Lucifer and Castiel, but how did one easily report absolute failure after a month of searching? It wasn't that the angels weren't trying; both Lucifer and Castiel were simply very well hidden. For a brief but glorious moment more than two weeks ago now, they had Castiel's location. However, when they blinked, he was gone. Besides, Michael was very much scarier than either of the renegade angels at this point.

It had been a month since Michael stormed back into the angels' lives, ripping through the skin of the new person he was possessing and all. He appeared the week before Dean Winchester died yet again and transformed into a demon proper. His original anger was an understatement to his wrath now. With Heaven truly in shambles, the Scribe imprisoned by Castiel's faithful, Castiel himself missing, and Dean Winchester not only a demon but also missing, Michael was constantly one breath away from blowing out the world like a candle on a birthday cake. Every angel – even the ones in his favor – were carefully minding their steps and words around him. Everyone was afraid that the slightest disappointment would end their life.

When Michael first appeared to the angels in an old courthouse that Bartholomew's camp had used as a sub-headquarters, he'd stepped into the role of God easily. From the high judge's chair, he pounded the gavel over many a disobedient angel's head. Though he found Dean Winchester almost immediately, Michael had refrained from revealing himself to the humans to see what Dean would do about Metatron first. Michael really didn't care about the Scribe; in his opinion, any angel that knew how to listen and write could replace him in a heartbeat, so any course of action Dean chose would be fine by him. Even so, when he saw how the final battle unfolded and everything after, Michael felt sick. He cursed everything (formerly) on high and (incidentally) caused a major hurricane that wiped out half of Japan.

How dare the Righteous Man be so insolent and so blatantly disrespectful! Michael understood and approved of the mantra "the end justifies the means," but receiving the Mark, converting an angel of the Lord, and attempting the kill the Scribe of the Lord, was not all justifiable. Even Michael knew limits. In fact, the limit of consented possession was limiting him now. Without it, all of the world's problems would have been resolved by now through the fated apocalypse. Michael was only trying to set everything straight now and fix the mess that Dean Winchester and his lackey Castiel had caused.

None of the other angels understood Michael's perspective however. The popular belief among the angels was that Michael hesitated in taking Dean Winchester because he was actually wary of possessing a man with the Mark of Cain, so obviously destined to become a demon, never mind the fact that he still needed permission. After all, Dean was a descendant of Cain. Though that also made him a descendent of Abraham and Joseph, the two most Righteous Men of all history, it also made him the perfect candidate for Hell: having to choose between good and evil throughout his life and consequently choosing evil more often; guiltily raising a younger brother to be better than he was meanwhile leading him astray; the anger issues; the lack of trust in anything; the incredibly wrong reactions to being let down or to losing something he loved; a policy of no mercy; an attitude of a dictator... For all his talk, the angels believed Michael was being cautious, and that caution allowed his Righteous Man to become a righteous demon.

Accordingly, most angels feared Michael now – blatantly, not reverently. No one wanted to follow him anymore. Whereas there was once a revered committee of enthusiastic angels who spoke to and informed Michael of recent progress in Heaven, there was now only Adriel, an angel who owed the archangel an enormous debt.

And even he was unwillingly elected to the position.

With an almost silent knock. Adriel finally worked up enough courage to nervously enter Michael's office. He glanced around with a foot outside the door, ready to run if Michael was not in; but gulped and closed the door softly behind him when he did see the most powerful angel. He opened his mouth to announce himself, but found he couldn't speak, and not by his own fear.

At this forced loss for words, Adriel could only stare purposefully, though more anxiously, at Michael, who was sitting in his grand chair with his eyes closed and his hands folded on his desk. His back was perfectly straight, his shoulders were held back and firm, and his head was ever so slightly bowed. If Adriel was still the naive angel he once was, he'd believe that Michael was resting. Though no angel slept, all angels rested. Especially in these times of war, their constant, rapid movement and work strained their grace. They needed an hour to a day sometimes to let their grace rebind. Archangels, however, never needed such rest. Their grace was brighter and stronger than any other's. They were practically indestructible; it was what made them so powerful and special.

Michael, especially, as the first archangel and the greatest warrior of Heaven, would never rest, Adriel was certain.

"Speak," Michael demanded. He did not lift his head nor open his eyes.

"Sir," Adriel greeted awkwardly. "How are you?"

"I'll be better when you find your way to a report," Michael said.

"Of course, sir, sorry, sir," Adriel amended quickly, "but I have nothing in particular to report. Um, though we have not found Heaven yet, we do have a several leads in that area."

"And?"

"And more angels have joined our ranks," Adriel continued, avoiding the topic Michael was waiting for. "About three hundred in the last week. Most of them the last of the rebel's army."

The rebel. No one was allowed to say his name. Even thinking _Castiel _was taboo.

"Have any of them brought news regarding where the rebel is?" Michael asked with strained patience. "Or where my wayward brother is?" Michael still hadn't opened his eyes or lifted his head, and it made him scarier.

"No, sir, none of them know. We've," Adriel paused uncomfortably, "asked, as you instructed." And poked and prodded and stuck and burned, Adriel added resentfully in his head.

Michael hummed. "So, you do not know where the rebel, our home, or my unfortunate brother is? You know nothing?"

"N-no, sir," Adriel stuttered. He already knew about Lucifer? Of course he already knew about Lucifer. If there was any news, Adriel would have burst in the room singing the loftiest hymns!

"Tell me, Adriel," Michael snapped, his eyes and head suddenly at attention as well. Adriel jumped in his place and watched Michael with wide eyes. "Do any of you work at all?"

"Of course, sir!" Adriel exclaimed quickly. "I've been flying after every lead we've found all week. Last week this was Buhiel's job. As well, Zachary is searching every channel he knows for absolutely anything. Japheal is watching for weather-manifested demonic signs. Eliza is trying to contact De-"

"Contact who?" Michael hissed.

"Death!" Adriel whimpered.

Michael was silent. Adriel did not dare speak. He had no idea what had spooked the archangel, but the black focus of his grace was rippling. Despite himself, Adriel wondered if Michael really did need rest because of that hole in his being.

No one had gotten close enough to Michael to truly see what the flowing black spot was. All anyone knew definitely was that it was now a part of his grace. Adriel's best guess was a hole. Michael had been in Hell fighting Lucifer for so long; it made sense that his grace would have whittled slowly away. It also explained Michael's horrible temper and single-minded focus. It even, perhaps, explained why he thought he could so easily possess Dean Winchester. If he was a tenth less angel – and a tenth more demon – the limits of possession might bend just enough for him.

Finally, Michael spoke. "Has anyone been watching for the dead boy Zachariah raised five years ago?"

"Er, no, sir," Adriel said. "We were not aware of his resurrection from the pit."

"He may have crawled out. Lucifer may have even ridden him out. I'm not sure anymore." Suddenly, Michael's voice was soft. He returned to his original position, and quietly addressed Adriel. "Zachariah... He was a true servant of Heaven, if an idiot."

"Yes, sir," Adriel said hesitantly. "I will give the job to Afriam then."

"Good," Michael agreed distractedly. "Now leave."


	6. Chapter 6

**AN:** _Would you look at this impeccable timing?! I think I've found a nice routine to fit writing into my busy days! Yes! Shout out to the reviews I received this week, too. They greatly motivated me to get this up sooner! Keep them coming!_

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Crowley rolled his eyes and sighed as he walked into the kitchen. In the rooms behind him, Sam was yelling about fixing his brother and look at the mess he'd made, Crowley; he'd fix this, and Sam would make sure of it. However, tired of the younger Winchester's flair for dramatics and empty threats, Crowley left him in search of food. He could practically smell a good, rare hamburger going to waste in the refrigerator because Sam was too much of a health nut to eat it while Dean... slept.

Dean had been sleeping for two weeks now. He had a pulse and bad breath. His eyelids fluttered maniacally over wildly rolling eyelids. His hands and feet twitched. His legs kicked dangerously but lethargically. He would mutter menacingly, growl, and even whimper, too. Sometimes, not often, his arms even took wide swings at nothing above him. Once, Crowley had been incredibly pleased to watch while Dean punched himself in the face and then rolled off the bed. Sam ran in at the loud, heavy thud and kicked Crowley out of the room while the demon laughed hysterically. After that, Crowley was banned from watching over Dean and put to watch Castiel instead.

The angel was still asleep as well, but whereas Dean punched and kicked and responded only to his own delirium, Castiel had conversations with Crowley. They weren't about anything in particular; it was just a lot of small talk and banter from both sides. The angel's eyes never so much as fluttered during any of these chats, and he probably didn't even know what he was saying if he knew he was speaking at all. Crowley had tried to show Sam one of these conversations, but the angel refused to speak in his presence. Sam had huffed out of the room highly offended while Crowley shook his head both at the easily insulted human and at the perplexing angel. Of course, Castiel had asked what was wrong as soon as Sam had left, and Crowley stormed out in frustration as well.

Now, two weeks later, Crowley was eating alone in the kitchen getting yelled at for his version of helping.

"Moose, shut up," Crowley groaned as he lazily grilled the burger with his demon abilities so that he did not have to lower himself to using the stove. "You wanted my assistance, I tried to assist you. We both know what I'd be better at right now, so why am I sitting around talking to the practically dead when I could be doing something productive?"

Sam stormed into the room and exclaimed, "Something productive? Crowley, you fiddling with the First Blade is not productive – it's dangerous! It'll either retaliate against you and kill you; respond to you, and you use it against us; or it just doesn't do anything. None of these are chances I'd like to take."

"You really mean that?" Crowley asked with mock sentiment. "You don't want me to get killed? Aw, stop it, Moose! You'll make my mascara run."

"Crowley, whether I like you or not, you're the best ally I have in this," Sam stated angrily.

"I think the word you're actually looking for is 'only'."

"Fine," Sam huffed. "You're my only ally in this."

"Which is why again?" Crowley taunted.

"Because you put my brother and Castiel in comas!"

"Wait! I did? What? Last time I checked, we all saw Castiel destroy the First Blade. What did I have to do with it?"

"You gave Dean the Blade and the mark in the first place!"

"Technically speaking, it was Cain who did that," Crowley argued smugly, turning back to his perfectly cooked hamburger. It had grill marks, but it was still red and bloody inside.

"Cain," Sam repeated thoughtfully.

"Yes, Cain," Crowley said. "Wai-well, hold on! Don't you go getting any ideas about confronting Cain with some great revenge plan! It'll never work, and you know it!" Crowley exclaimed realizing what Sam was probably thinking.

"I'm not going to fight him..." Sam trailed off. "I have a better idea."

"A what?" Crowley stuttered. He put his burger on the table and stared at Sam dumbstruck. "What the bloody hell do you think you're going to do?" Sam started walking away with an expression that clearly showed he was too invested in his thoughts to listen to Crowley. "You can't be thinking about going after Cain anyway because who's going to stay behind and make sure brother dearest doesn't wake up and kill his husband?"

Sam was already rushing back to his room. He called over his shoulder, "I'm just going to talk to him!"

"A bloody girl. He's a bloody teenage girl!" Crowley swore. "If he's not futilely fighting, he's talking and appealing to feelings. The idiot! Such a horrible demon he'd make."

Too disgusted now to eat, Crowley wandered back to the rooms to where Dean and Castiel were laying in their comatose states. To be honest, he was worried about both of them. Castiel definitely should have woken by now. He was only suffering from a few broken ribs and a shortage of grace. Dean had tried to beat him to a pulp, but the sudden loss of the Blade had made him weak. The damage he inflicted was only that of a human's strength. It'd been two weeks that Castiel was resting, and he should have recovered from it by now. He should've at least opened his eyes, even if he wasn't fully charged enough to do anything except sit and stand and walk around.

Dean, on the other hand, was a more complicated question. He was a demon, so it would take a lot to kill him. Was he still human, the two weeks without food or water would have killed him, but now that didn't matter. All the same, Crowley never knew a demon to be unconscious for this long. If it wasn't for Dean's constant, convincing comatose movements, Crowley would think he was only pretending until Sam was out of the way. The Blade, however, was what kept him alive in the first place, and now that it was destroyed, Crowley had a sinking feeling that Dean's life force was, too.

How Castiel had even managed to destroy the thing, Crowley didn't know. He had gone into fully demonstrated angel mode and smashed it over his knee! Until then, Crowley didn't know that when angels demonstrated their grace as such that it made any difference; he thought it was simply a menacing demonstration meant to strike fear into enemy hearts. Apparently, it did do something – it made them stronger. But Castiel, Crowley thought slowly, was running on stolen, almost depleted grace. He probably did it only to muster any and all strength he had left.

"The buffoon drained himself!" Crowley realized. "He almost killed himself. For Dean. Again."

"What was that?" Sam's head appeared in the doorway. He looked almost hopeful when he saw Crowley leaning with intent over Castiel's bed. "Did someone say something?"

"Nothing. Your angel brother-in-law here is a moron," Crowley spat.

"Now you're just repeating yourself, Crowley," Sam rolled his eyes. He pushed off the doorframe disappointedly. "If I didn't need you to guard these two while I'm gone, I'd just let you out of the damn bunker for being pointless."

"What? Babysit?" Crowley repeated repulsed.

"Yes," Sam said. "I'm going out."

"Well, I knew you wanted to get domestic, Moose, but we've only just begun living together," Crowley clucked, sarcasm dripping from his voice regardless of how flabbergasted he was.

"Just shut up already," Sam groaned, walking quickly away.

"I also thought you didn't trust me," Crowley pushed, appearing in front of Sam.

"I don't," Sam snapped, "and if you keep that up, I'll continue not to." Crowley didn't move, so Sam explained. "I have to go talk to an old friend." Then he pushed past Crowley and began packing a duffle bag.

"By 'old friend', you mean hunter buddy that's going to help you track down Cain?" Crowley guessed.

Sam shoved clothes in the bag, one item at a time, counting what he had grabbed. "It might take some time, but no matter how long it takes, I need someone here looking after Dean and Cas," Sam continued, ignoring him. "I can't let them wake up suddenly, trapped in the bunker… alone."

"Why, Sam, it almost sounds like you don't trust your brother."

Sam stopped and turned to Crowley in surprise. The demon was smirking smugly again, but Sam was frowning deeply. Quietly he admitted, "How can I? He's more like you than ever now."

With a sigh, Sam zipped the bag closed in one smooth, hard tug, threw it over his shoulder, and climbed the steps to the door two at a time without really trying. He leaned over the banister to shout down to Crowley, "Don't you dare do anything wrong, Crowley. I'll know, and I'll kill you." He watched Crowley shudder with exaggerated fear at his threat then slammed the heavy door behind him.

Once outside the bunker, Sam opened his phone and dialed one of his father's old contacts. He walked to the Impala slowly, taking in the sleek black car as if hypnotized by it. It was his brother's car not hi. Dean's car. Sure, he'd driven it before – even owned it when Dean died – but this was different. Sam had never taken the Impala and left his brother behind before unless he was in the ground. It just felt wrong.

Trying to shrug it off and pull himself together, Sam answered with surprise when someone spoke through the phone.

"Hello? Who the hell is this? Is this a prank call? I swear you bastard kids, I'll –"

"Hey, hey, Paul! I'm not a kid!" Sam exclaimed with a laugh. "I'm actually Sam Winchester, John's son."

A pause. "The humorless one or the runt?"

"Um, the younger one?"

"Oh, yeah, the runt! I thought you said it wasn't a kid calling! Heya, Sam, what can I do for John? Why isn't he the one calling right now?"

"Well, actually, I'm not a kid anymore, and I need your help."

"What mess did John get into now?"

"Actually, Dad died a few years ago. This, uh, this problem's all my own."

"Wow, kid. I'm real sorry about that. John was a good man."

"Yeah, I know. Look, I need your help find a demon. A really powerful one who's been off the grid for ages. Literally, ages. You used to help my dad with that stuff right?"

"Yeah, I was the first person your dad turned to when he was looking for his demon. Still sorry that I couldn't find it."

"Yeah, it's alright," Sam said softly. "It kind of found us. We dealt with him."

"You killed him?" Paul exclaimed.

"Yep."

"In that case, get your ass over here. We've got things to talk and to celebrate! Hey, I'm in Tennessee now, so uh, will I see you soon or will it take some time?"

"Yeah, you'll see me soon. Give me a few days, but I'll get there. I'll call when I'm close."

"Alright, Sam. See you soon."

"Yeah, see you."

Sam climbed into the driver's seat and sped away.

Inside the bunker, Crowley heard the car door slam and sighed heavily. The idiot was going to get himself killed if he thought he could go after Cain like this. If Crowley didn't have to babysit two comatose supermen, he'd chase after Sam and punch some sense into him. Correction, Crowley thought with a grimace, if he didn't care about and wasn't willing to babysit the two comatose supermen, he'd chase after Sam and punch some sense into him; but at a loss, Crowley could only return to his hamburger and stare into space for some time. The thing had gone cold again and wasn't worth eating. Why was he even bothering? He was a demon. He didn't need to eat. Only fragile humans did that.

Crowley glumly pushed the plate away, but perked up with a sudden thought immediately after. Not wasting time with walking, Crowley materialized in the dungeon where Sam had locked up the Blade fragments. He hadn't noticed if he put them in his duffle or not, so it was worth looking into. He didn't think he did though; he'd only noticed clothes going into the duffle. And there it was. As Crowley excitedly approached the table, he saw that it still held the cloth and a large chunk of the First Blade. The handle of the Blade was missing, but the rest of it was still arranged pointlessly as a half-hearted jigsaw puzzle where the pieces were put together yet with space between each piece.

Not bothering to hide since he was practically alone in the bunker now, Crowley thought aloud. "If I could just get Dean to touch the damn thing... But the bloody grip is missing! The idiot is probably bringing it to Cain! Well, at least he didn't take a pointy piece that Cain could easily kill him with. No, he left those for me! Maybe he's not as entirely stupid as I think he is."

The demon paced a short distance in thought. He could still try. Simply touching the First Blade wouldn't kill him. If his plan worked, Dean might – but that thought was for another time. The last time he had sat watch in Dean's room, the mark on Dean's arm was still glowing but had begun to dim. Even if Sam refused to listen, Crowley knew time was running out, and his idea was worth a try. So, he wrapped up the Blade fragments in the cloth and carefully carried them to the Dean's room.

"Right," Crowley announced his presence to what he knew was just short of an empty room, "let's have a go at this, shall we? You're overlord brother doesn't think I should be trying anything. He still doesn't trust me. Yet, he left me alone with you, so he has to expect me to try something! Does he want me to just sit and twiddle my bloody thumbs? We'll prove him wrong."

Crowley leant over the bedside table and put the Blade down. Sensing the Blade approach, Dean whimpered aggressively. Slightly unnerved, Crowley reassembled the Blade, making sure the pieces were perfectly fitted together. Then he nervously picked up Dean's hand and placed it on the table next to the Blade. He jumped back and shielded his face with his arms, but when nothing happened, he opened his eyes again to see Dean still just lying there with his elbow awkwardly dangling from the table. Crowley huffed in disappointment and studied the scene. Studying the scene for a moment, Crowley realized the Blade wasn't as close to the mark as it could be, and that he'd have to help it a bit more.

"Pretty pathetic for an all-powerful demonic mark if you ask me," he muttered to himself as he arranged the Blade on the other bedside table and switched the positions of Dean's hands.

This time, he couldn't jump back fast enough.

Dean's wrist flicked toward the Blade as soon as it was out of Crowley grasp. He sucked in a loud, deep breath and reverently stroked his weapon which had begun to glow. Like mercury, the jagged pieces of the Blade were melting together and becoming whole again. Dean's eyelids fluttered madly. He turned his head to look for the handle and let out a primal grunt when he couldn't find it.

"Dean?" Crowley calmly asked. He received another primal grunt. "Dean, you have to wake up."

Crowley was standing perfectly still beside the bedside table. Now that he was touching the Blade again, Dean's features seemed to relax. His movements subdued, and he lay peacefully.

"Dean?" The hopeful exclamation came from the doorway. Crowley spun around to see Castiel leaning heavily on the doorframe sporting terrible bed-head and what looked like blood on his chin.

"You ate my burger!" Crowley cried despite it being the least important issue of the moment. Dean harrumphed in his sleep at the noise.

"I required sustenance," Castiel stated with great aggravation, not removing his eyes from Dean. He took a few careful steps toward the bed. Leaning over it, he asked again "Dean?"

"I wouldn't get too close, lover-boy," Crowley warned. "He's going to be rather angry at you if he actually wakes up."

Castiel considered this and retreated a few feet. "You repaired the Blade?" he observed. "How?"

"By putting it in his hand," Crowley answered, his eyes still trained on Dean.

"Why would you do that?"

"Because the Blade is what's keeping him alive! Good God, am I the only one with a brain around here?"

"I destroyed the Blade for a reason, Crowley! You should have woken me up before him! I was going to heal him! If he doesn't have the Blade keeping him a demon, it will be easier to convert him!"

It was Crowley's turn to consider what was said. "Why didn't you say that then? In all of our little chats you never thought to mention it?" the demon cried.

Castiel's eyes narrowed in suspicion, and his head titled in confusion. "What chats?"

"You had a jolly old time discussing the weather with me every day," Crowley told him. "While you were unconscious you even told me about your wonderful childhood in Heaven. You said a lot about the family of your meatsuit, too. You wouldn't shut up about it, actually. Apparently that Jimmy and Amelia had a wonderful marriage, and Claire was the perfect daughter, and you feel just awful about mucking it up."

Castiel's brow furrowed, and he wiped his chin. Examining the blood that was now on his hand, he breathed deeply and walked out of the room. With a harried glance back at Dean again, Crowley followed the angel.

Castiel was sitting at the table, finishing the hamburger solemnly. "Sam was right," he said quietly. "I am fallen again."

"But you still have some juice left don't you?"

"I do not think so." Castiel held his head in his hand. "I used all of it to destroy the Blade."

"Oops."

"Oops?" Castiel mocked. His voice was deeper and more menacing than Crowley had heard it in a long time. "Yes, 'oops'! You've ruined everything, you damn abomination!"

Crowley frowned, almost disappointed by the lameness of the angel's insult. "Really? That's the best you can come up with?" Castiel glared at the demon, but he continued. "Honestly. Even if you had broken the Blade and made it easier to heal him, you'd still be utterly drained. If I wasn't here right now, then sure, the Blade would still be in smithereens, but there wouldn't have been any rare hamburgers on the table to wake you up either!" Crowley stopped for a moment, and smirked while Castiel's face fell slowly. "That's right, Cas," he assured snidely. "If it wasn't for me, you and Sam would be screwed worse than you actually, already are."

Castiel wiped his mouth with his sleeve and then hung his head in his hands. "Well, we're all in this together," he chanted dully, "so –"

"Did you just quote _High School_ bloody _Musical_?" Crowley asked in disgust.

"Yes," Castiel stated. "It was not entirely my intention. It just came out that way."

"Wait, you know what High School Musical is?" Crowley questioned. "Talk about torture."

"Yes," Castiel answered shortly.

"Since when?"

"Since Metatron planted the plot and features of every single literary work none to humans in my brain." Castiel's tone was bored. He wanted to discuss important matters, not this frivolous one.

Crowley continued to probe regardless. "And you're all just peachy with that?"

"What do you mean? Why wouldn't I – or we – be? It's only movies and books. I also now understand all the references you've made to or about me now." Castiel spoke with an unamused look that he learned from Sam.

"So none of you see the potential dangers of this?" Crowley asked with a tone that suggested they were all insane.

"If you are referring to the ideas Metatron may have planted in my mind, then yes, I do see these 'potential dangers,'" Castiel acknowledged, "however, all of my thoughts have been own thus far, so I believe I am safe."

"Now," Castiel said, forcefully steering the conversation back to essential matter, "what do you propose we do?"

"About Dean and the Blade and Sam?" Crowley confirmed. "Well, first, I propose one of us stops the moose before he gets himself killed. Before that, however, I propose that I go food shopping because there is nothing worth eating in this grimy pit."

Castiel squinted. "But you do not require physical sustenance," he pointed out.

"Ah, but you do, and Dean probably will," Crowley explained.

Castiel's face was purely shocked until he realized his emotion was showing. Then, he forced it to look like confusion instead. "You are volunteering to go food shopping for Dean… and me?" he inquired incredulously.

"Someone has to," Crowley shrugged. When Castiel continued to stare at him with a blank expression, he rolled his eyes and said. "Must we think this through? Fine. Two out of three people in the bunker right now will probably need to eat at some point. One of them, this one being you, definitely needs to eat soon."

"I have eaten," Castiel interrupted indignantly.

"One hamburger?" Crowley scoffed. "Don't be an anorexic, Castiel. You're still hungry, and you know it. Now, where was I? Yes, right – the other is yet comatose. When Moose returns, there will be two people who must eat. That leaves one person who does not have to eat and who just happens to be the strongest person in the bunker at the moment. Besides all that, if one of us leaves, the other will be left alone to watch Sleeping Beauty back there. I highly doubt that you are willing to let that person be me."

"Actually," Castiel tried to interject, but Crowley kept talking.

"Furthermore, which one of us is able to fly to the grocery store, take what we need, and fly back?"

Defeated, Castiel said, "I think you mean 'buy'?"

"Do you have money?" Crowley asked snidely. "Do you know where Sam keeps the money in the bunker? You'll starve before you find anything to buy food with!"

"I could call him," Castiel argued.

"He'd more likely drive all the way home first."

Reluctantly, Castiel grunted assent and said, "But... you should... be here when he… Dean… wakes up."

Crowley blinked in confusion. "Me?" he deadpanned.

"Yes, you," Castiel repeated with vexation.

"Why?" Crowley's voice was a mix of outrage and bewilderment.

"Because he's still a demon, and he'll need your help," Castiel said with dismay. "Also, I don't know how he will react to me when he wakes up. I am the one who destroyed the Blade."

"Ooh, you're not just an angel to him now, you're Public Enemy No. 1," Crowley stated cheerfully. Castiel again made the face that he had learned so well from Sam.

Crowley's face fell, and he let out a loud, heavy breath. "I can't tell whether you're insane or foolish. You've been around these Winchesters far too long; it must have rubbed off or something." Crowley swatted the shoulders and chest of his suit as he spoke for emphasis. "Look, Cas." He sighed heavily again. "I appreciate the sentiment and the balls it took for you to cough it up, but if you really want me to stay, you'll have to find a way to get in and out of the bunker without someone opening it for you, which no one here can do because Sam's run off! We'd have to scratch off the anti-angel sigils to let you in and out. As long as my summoning sigil is still carved in the back room, I can come and go as I please. You'd also need a car, which of course we don't have because Sam's run off!" Crowley ended in an aggravated rant.

Castiel watched Crowley distrustfully, but finally agreed. "Very well. Just... be quick. And don't buy anything poisonous!"

"Again with the buying," Crowley tutted. Then he disappeared.

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_Sorry I had to reload this chapter. I realized that I made a huge mistake, and had to fix it. No one told me about it so I guess no one else noticed, but I just couldn't leave it alone._


	7. Chapter 7

**AN:** _This chapter was pretty difficult to write, and I'm really only posting because I'm tired of it staring loathsomely at me. Sorry. Next chapter is going to be fun. I promise._

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Crowley returned to the bunker chuckling. His food run had been even easier than expected. He had momentarily possessed a stock boy so that he could walk out of the store with an unpaid for cart full of food but none of the suspicion. Once outside, he simply sent the food to the bunker. Then, he went back to his preferred body and disappeared back to bunker himself. Really, Crowley knew he was good, but this was almost too easy. Perhaps he should do simple jobs like this more often. It felt good to win so easily.

Whistling an old Scottish tune, Crowley walked back to the kitchen to check that everything was properly stowed away. He could only hope until he got there that Castiel had known where to put everything as it appeared in the kitchen. Granted, he had been human for some months after his grace was stolen, but Crowley doubted he knew how to stock a kitchen.

Astonishingly, Crowley's far-fetched hope was fulfilled – all of the meat was in the freezer, the milk and eggs were in the refrigerator, the potatoes were in the cupboard, and the fruit was even in the sink halfway through being incorrectly washed. The only thing missing was whoever did all of it. Seeing it almost perfect, Crowley half- assumed that Dean had woken up and taken over.

"Feathers is probably napping," Crowley decided, "or watching Dean sleep again."

"Very close," Dean's voice said from behind. Crowley spun around to face him. "I suppose I should thank you, huh?"

The new demon was leaning on a doorframe, aiming for nonchalance but falling short and appearing suspicious. It did not help, of course, that he was holding Castiel in front of him with the partial First Blade at his throat. The hand with the Blade was shaking furiously, and the Mark of Cain glowing so brightly on his arm that it was reflected on his face and in his eyes, which looked dead even for the depraved black orbs of a demon. His skin was pale, and he was swatting profusely.

It was incredible to Crowley how sickly and human he appeared that Crowley actually pitied him.

"Thank me for what?" Crowley asked calmly, fixing a steady gaze on Dean.

"Well, I'm guessing you got all this food, right? You even remembered a pie. Sammy never remembers the pie," Dean praised. "Also for, you know, bringing me back after this one tried to kill me. I really didn't appreciate that, Cas. I thought we were such great friends."

"Dean," Crowley said in a placating voice, "you need to calm down."

Dean narrowed his eyes angrily and dropped his conversational stance. "He tried to killed me," he argued with just a hint if insanity in his voice.

"No, he was trying to save you. He was an idiot about it, but he was," Crowley insisted.

"Save me from what?" Dean asked in disbelief. "I'm fine!"

"I know you are," Crowley promised, "but he thinks you're some especially horrible demon. I've sorted him out already though. There's no need to kill him."

"Why not? He's an angel. He'll just try to kill me again," Dean persisted.

Crowley paused. He couldn't keep this charade going. He was practically allergic to being compassionate unless it directly benefited him. Besides, Dean was still that Winchester underneath this maniacal demon. He wasn't going to kill Castiel, and it was obvious. Focusing on the Blade under Castiel's chin, Crowley realized that blood was dripping on it and briefly considered the possibility that Dean wasn't bluffing; then, he realized that the blood was from Dean's palm. Directly gripping the Blade was hurting him.

Castiel cleared his throat anxiously, and Crowley realized that a few silent seconds had passed. "You won't kill him," he answered as if it was obvious. "Castiel is a friend, yeah? Of yours, at least. "Even if he wasn't, he's important to the other angels and what I like to call a bargaining chip to us."

"You wouldn't dare," Castiel managed to protest uncertainly.

"I've got to sell it, calm down," Crowley hissed, making no attempt to subtle in front of Dean. Castiel watched Crowley suspiciously but otherwise did not say anything and stayed still in Dean's hold.

Dean hummed as if debating everything and slowly decided, "Fine. Yeah, alright. Besides, I need him anyway." He shoved Castiel away from him and moved with a limp toward a chair to fall on heavily and sit indecently. From his place still in the doorway massaging his throat, Castiel grunted and looked away in disgust. Dean smirked at his reaction, but Crowley only rolled his eyes at both of them. If this was Dean saving face after failing to make an intimidating display, he was making everything even more pathetic than it already was.

"Are you done?" Crowley asked exasperated. "I don't have time for this." Not that he actually had anywhere to be.

Dean frowned at Crowley and held his Blade in a quietly threatening position, though Crowley was still finding it very difficult to consider him menacing. "We need to talk about our arrangement."

Infuriated, Castiel spun to face Crowley. "You made a deal with him?" he thundered.

Crowley simply ignored the angel. "Oh, really?" he laughed at Dean.

"Yes," Dean said through gritted teeth.

"If you insist," Crowley laughed with a gesture to continue.

Dean was becoming more and more frustrated by the second as he realized that his control was utterly gone. Crowley was not the least bit afraid or intimidated by him anymore. He had lost all of the ground he stood on and needed to reclaim it somehow, fast. There was only one thing he could think of doing to fix his situation, but it was a risky stretch that he would have to try: narrowing his eyes and focusing all of his anger on the older demon, Dean pictured Crowley's throat closing again, and this time it worked. Crowley began to choke and splutter. He grabbed at his throat, hacked out coughs, and gasped for breath. His rolled back slightly, and Dean could practically see the spots for him.

"You little bastard!" he choked out.

"I know," Dean grinned. He let Crowley breathe again and laughed at his floundering breaths.

"I'll kill you!" Crowley gasped.

"No, you won't," Dean said mimicking Crowley's earlier obvious tone, satisfied with his display and the ground it regained for him. "We're friends, remember? You need me."

"Crowley, what did you promise him, and what was the price?" Castiel asked in a non-tolerating voice.

"Oh, calm down!" Crowley exclaimed angrily. "He doesn't have a soul to sell, so it was just an old-fashioned agreement. I'm supposed to teach him how to be a demon, though he seems to have that figured it out himself. What did you dream about Demon Academy?" He made a mocking face at Dean, and Dean laughed humorlessly in response.

"In return for what?" Castiel pressed, ignoring them both.

Dean answered, "That I be the threatening force behind his shiny, brand-spanking-new kingdom. You know: make a few appearances, pretend to be allies – what you did during the first half of the apocalypse." He turned to the angel and tilted his head in a very Castiel manner.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Castiel asked icily, his eyes narrowing to slits.

"Ooh, I love watching couples fight," Crowley interjected. Castiel advanced toward Dean, but Crowley put a hand on his chest and gave him a warning look, "But, Castiel, stop. Not now. You know he's only winding you up."

"Yes, because it's working," Castiel hissed.

"That's the point, big guy." Dean winked at him.

"Now, Dean," Crowley said, trying to redirect the conversation again toward something meaningful, "what about our arrangement did you want to discuss?"

"How stupid it is," Dean said. "I shouldn't have to make a deal with you to learn how to do all those fancy demon tricks, right? And, hey, we're best buddies aren't we? So, I should just offer to help you with your kingdom thing that no one cares about anyway–" Crowley rolled his eyes "–and you should just help me with my," Dean searched for the right words, "demonic abilities," he finished, seemingly satisfied.

Crowley rolled his eyes but listened carefully. "What are you proposing then?" he asked.

"Nothing really," Dean shrugged, "just that we should all be friends. After all, how many times have we helped each other in the past?"

"And how do you want us to help you now?" Castiel asked through narrowed, untrusting eyes, cutting through Dean's small talk.

"Let's start small." Dean's head swiveled toward the interrupting angel again. "I do think that it's high time that you healed me," he suggested with a lazy smile.

"In return for what?" Crowley asked.

"Well," Dean answered, "if he needs grace to heal me, I figured I'd give him grace."

"How do you expect to get grace?" Crowley asked incredulously. "You can't leave the bunker!"

"But you can," Dean reminded him.

"Oh, yes, that's right," Crowley said as if suddenly remembering before shouting, "but how do you expect me to get an angel's grace?"

"The how is up to you," Dean said, "but I know who you'll take it from." He winked at Castiel conspiratorially and continued, "He doesn't deserve to keep it. Cas knows exactly where he is. The rest is as simple as pie." Both angel and demon stared at Dean shocked and bewildered. "Ooh, pie! You bought that, didn't you? That shouldn't have any salt in it. Good ole pie – can always count on my pie."

Dean stood on shaky legs but walked confidently to the refrigerator to look for some. Crowley and Castiel watched him from behind, trying to determine how serious he was. They shared an uneasy look as he found a pie and a fork and hesitantly ate. After the first satisfactory bite, Dean shoveled the pie into his mouth reverently like a starved Swiss man rediscovering chocolate and watched the other men expectantly.

Crowley fidgeted on his feet, thinking. He didn't know what it was about this little plan of Dean's, but something had to give, and it was making him uncomfortable. The Winchester was asking him to walk into an angelic facility and murder one of the angels. Sure, he'd enjoy murdering the angel – he was a demon, of course he would – but he didn't like being used as a mercenary. He glanced uneasily at Castiel beside him and realized that he was actually slightly uncomfortable with the idea after all, which was stupid because Castiel was a special case – both in relationship and in the head. No matter what he was Crowley, killing an angel and stealing his grace would delight Crowley if only it wasn't so dangerous. This was a simple heist to his food run, but not nearly as simple, Crowley realized, cursing his earlier wish.

Castiel felt Crowley's quick gaze, and looked at the demon for a moment as well. The demon looked to be debating something, but what was he was debating was unclear to the angel, who was debating some things himself. For example, how of much demon-Dean was talking right now and how much of scorned-human-Dean was breaking through? The human part of Dean may have resurfaced while the Blade and its hold of Dean were out of commission. Therefore, this request could be coming as a demon's version of a human's revenge. That is, if Dean was discussing the same angel Castiel was thinking of. As much as the idea repulsed him, Castiel also could not help but admit that he liked the idea of killing Metatron and taking his grace. The Scribe had done so much against him; it would be nice to have some revenge.

Castiel frowned deeply and shook the idea out of his head. He should not be thinking of exacting revenge. Angels did not take revenge, especially not to this degree. His fallen state was becoming more human, and he had to be careful not to truly become one. Contrary to popular belief, Castiel was not a killer. If they went through with this, he would have to go with Crowley to steal Metatron's grace without killing him.

Noticed Castiel's aggressive thinking and Dean asked, "Debating the value of his grand angelic life, Cas? We both know he's not worth it. He's only a means to an end."

"What end would that be? Squandering more grace on your behalf?" Castiel spat.

Dean flinched at the words, unable to repress the sting his old human emotions felt. To hide it as best he could, he took a much larger bite of pie and forced a smile. "Getting your real grace back."

"And how do you intend to do that?" Castiel asked impatiently.

"Well, I wasn't planning on killing Metatron," Dean explained. "Only, you know, taking him prisoner and torturing him for information. Kinda like we did Crowley, only less humanely and more demonic…ally. I can't tell you how many new torture ideas are in my head now!" Dean laughed. "And I thought you brought back some horrible part of me when you made me torture Alistair? No, this whole being a demon thing is bringing back great memories of torturing angels down in the pit."

Castiel felt like the air was punched out of his chest. He whispered, "You tortured angels?"

"If it makes you feel any better," Dean offered, "it wasn't my idea." Castiel tried to say something, then closed his mouth and walked away. "And it was before I even met you!" Dean shouted after him. The demon felt vindicated for Castiel's insult, but the human felt worse for insulting his best friend. When a door slammed down the hall, Dean only outwardly laughed with glee while Crowley stared after Castiel, just as astonished as the angel.

He looked at Dean with new eyes and asked, "Did Alistair make you do that?"

Dean swallowed his laughter and took another accomplished bite of pie. "Of course, who else would have?"

"Right," Crowley said thoughtfully. "Did you know they were angels?" he asked.

"Not at the time," Dean shrugged. "I didn't believe in angels back then anyway. When Alistair called them that, I just thought he was exaggerating how good of a person they'd been and didn't ask questions." After a moment, he added viciously, "I was a good student."

"So, you've been in the Vault, then." Crowley's statement sounded more like a question.

"The what?" Dean asked, annoyed by Crowley's intense interest.

"The Vault!" Crowley repeated. "Where all of the weapons and high-profile souls are specially secured."

"Well, when you put it like that," Dean said arrogantly, "I never left it." Suddenly without an appetite, he put away half of his pie and threw his fork in the sink, without a care to the fruit in it. "Why do you care?" he asked, turning again to Crowley with a hard, apprehensive stare.

"Oh, no reason," Crowley brushed it off quickly. He looked down the hallway again and said, "I think I'll go make sure Cas isn't sobbing too hard into his pillow and try to get some details about Metatron out of him." With that, he disappeared and Dean was left alone with annoyingly conflicted thoughts.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN:** _I think I write more fanfiction at work than I actually do work... Here's a nice long chapter that I had fun with for you. Seeing as I'm out of Cheerios, I'd love to have some reviews to pick up my mornings... _

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As Dean painfully and begrudgingly stood, he noticed the two-inch deep imprint of himself in the steel wall. Three hours ago, that might have still filled him with vicious rage, but six and a half hours into Crowley's game, it only filled him with miserable regret. If throwing him around was Crowley's idea of demon lessons, Dean no longer wanted a part of it. What he wanted was to slice Crowley's throat open with his Blade, but Castiel wouldn't let him. The angel insisted that if they were to be "friends" as Dean suggested yesterday, that he would not pick up the First Blade unless absolutely necessary, and some reason, he was obeying. Even though he felt an undeniable itch to use it, to hold it, it seemed easier to put it down now than it had even when he was human.

The angel walked into the room just as Dean thought of their agreement, but Dean took no notice of him. He shook off his crash, determined not to be thrown again, and growled as he turned around. Dean threw his arm as if backhanding Crowley across the face, and the older demon's lazy chuckle broke off into a surprised shout.

"My turn," Dean muttered as Crowley smashed with a huge clatter into the opposite wall.

"It's about damn time!" Crowley yelled as he stood. He snapped his fingers to fix his suit and faced the Winchester. Whatever he was going to say cut off in an alarmed yell as he crashed into the wall again. He didn't slide to the ground, however; Dean approached him with open hostility, a look of deep concentration and resentment tugging on his features.

"That's," he growled. Crowley's head snapped back against the wall. "E–," Crowley's head snapped back again, denting the wall further, "–nough!" Dean finished. Crowley's head broke through the wall.

"Yes, Dean," Castiel said from the doorway, Dean's name catching almost unperceptively in his throat. _Almost_, Dean smirked to himself. "It is. Release him."

"But, Dad!" Dean whined mockingly. When Castiel did not respond, Dean rolled his eyes and released his unseen hold on Crowley. Though his body deflated, his limbs could only hang limply; he would have fallen to the floor if it were not for his head stuck in the wall, bending his neck at a decidedly uncomfortable angle.

"Thanks, Cas!" came his muffled moan of sarcasm and pain.

"You're welcome," Castiel called back, nodding sincerely. Turning back to Dean, he said curtly, "Sam called. He wants to speak to you."

"Can't you tell him I'm busy?" Dean complained. "Really, just explain what I'm doing, and I'm sure he'll understand. He'll even appreciate it, I bet!"

"This is not funny, Dean," Castiel deadpanned.

"Why not?" Dean asked cheekily. "Is Sam's payphone almost out of minutes?" Castiel looked away from him, suddenly very interest in Crowley's floundering attempts to free himself from the wall.

"He claims it was do with Chuck," Castiel told him finally, voice devoid of emotion.

"Chuck?" Dean repeated, his face twisting in confusion and some distate. "Mousy guy in a bathrobe, always drunk, worse hair than Sam, writes about our lives Chuck?"

"Yes, that Chuck."

"That bugger's real?" Crowley called.

"Of course, he's real, you ass," Dean said over his shoulder. "You used his books against us, remember? Killed Sarah Blake?"

Crowley harrumphed with effort, not actually listening to Dean. "Vaguely."

Dean made him punch himself in the face in a fit of anger, satisfied when he heard Crowley yelp in pain.

"Dean!" Castiel shouted, losing patience.

"Sorry," Dean shrugged. "It felt good. Might become a habit."

"Are you going to talk to your brother or not?" Castiel asked slowly.

"Yeah, sure. Why not?" Dean said. "I'm done here." He reached for the phone in Castiel's front jeans pocket and pulled it out slowly, patting the material after he did and letting his fingers feel between Castiel's legs a little. Castiel's breath caught in surprise and embarrassment. His leg twitched, and he tried to bat his hand away, but Dean was already turned around and walking away.

"Heya, Sammy!" Dean greeted cheerfully. Behind him, Crowley crumpled to the floor suddenly with more noise and cursing than needed, and Dean laughed loudly into the phone. Not bothering to cover the mouthpiece, he exclaimed, "Nice! You know, I had a lot of fun here after all, Crowley. We should do this again." The he walked out of the room with Castiel close behind.

"Yeah, yeah, shut up a minute," Dean told a very aggravated Sam. "I'm putting you on speaker. We've got an audience."

"–the hell are you talking about, Dean?" Sam was shouting. His voice crackled unpleasantly through the phone.

"Cas is here," Dean explained simply.

"What was all that with Crowley?" Sam barked

"Oh, he, uh, had a bad fall," Dean said with a laugh. Castiel hummed disapprovingly.

"What were you doing? And why do you want to do it again?" Sam pressed.

"He was teaching me a few things," Dean said somewhat defensively.

Sam paused, and Dean could just imagine the annoyance on his face. "Like what?"

"What's with the twenty questions? Don't you trust your own brother?" Dean asked grinning. Castiel could see it was forced.

"We both know the answer to that," Sam said harshly after a pause.

Dean sighed dramatically before restarting the conversation. "So, I heard you called about Chuck? What's the idiot up to now? You know, I kind of thought he was dead."

Sam's chuckle sounded cautious. "Yeah, so did I. We haven't heard from him in ages, and all of sudden, there he is."

"Wait," Dean stopped in the middle of the hallway, and Castiel walked into him. "He's there? As in, with you? Or you're with him?" Dean stumbled over his words. In his frustration, he shouted at Castiel, "I'm a demon! I thought you would actually get the personal space thing by now!"

Castiel jumped back looking wounded. Dean shook his head and returned his attention to the phone conversation, still conflicted as to whether Castiel's pain upset or pleased him. Or maybe both, he thought with a devilish grin, specially aimed at Castiel. The angel's nostril's flared uncomfortably, and he looked far away from Dean.

"Dean, calm down, he didn't do anything!" Sam snapped through the phone.

"Well, excuse me, but I don't like being stepped on," Dean snapped back.

"Would you just shut up and let Sam say what he called to say?" Crowley yelled over the bickering. He limped toward Dean and Castiel from the direction of the kitchen, holding an ice pack to the back of his head. Taking the phone out of Dean's hand, he asked, "So, Moose, how's the search for Cain going? I hear you're not dead yet. Are you just incapable of finding the most demonic demon to ever be a demon then?"

Both of the other present parties stared at Crowley with shock and judgment. Sam contributed a surprised silence as well until he dragged out a judgmental question, "What?"

"The hell was that?" Dean finished the question for him.

"Oh, shut up and answer the question, Moose!"

"Wait," Dean said again, holding up his hand. "You're serious? Sam, did you go after Cain? Is that where you are?"

"No," Sam said quickly. "Well, yes but no," he corrected, seeming to confuse himself. "Yes, I went after Cain – sort of – but no, that's not where I am. I didn't find him. I never started looking for him."

"But you just said you went after him?" Castiel argued, moving around Dean to stand nearer Crowley and the phone.

"Because I did," Sam said, "just not directly."

Dean groaned, "Getting a headache, Sam."

"Yes, I left in search of Cain," Sam said flatly, "but I don't exactly know where he is, and I couldn't take Crowley with me. So, I went looking for this guy Dad used to know, Paul Miller, he used to be really good at finding things – like, a less tech version of Ash; he was great with spells and rituals and the lot–"

"Yeah, Sam, I remember him. We stayed with him for months in the beginning of everything," Dean interrupted, "until Dad got fed up with his lack of results, and left us there for a while. What are you doing with him now?"

"Yeah, well, angels attacked us as soon as I got to his house," Sam continued. "I got out, had to kill a few of the angels to do it, but eventually I drew the banishing sigil on the floor and got rid of them. Paul, uh, he wasn't so lucky though. He was smited before I got rid of them all." Sam paused, probably emotional because he had gotten someone killed. Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm kidding out in his house now, but things are getting really, really weird around here."

"Where are you?" Castiel asked.

"Kansas City," Sam answered quickly.

"Kansas City?" Dean asked urgently. "How weird? What kind of weird?" He glanced worriedly at Castiel, who returned his look nervously.

"Yeah, Kansas City, and I don't know, just really weird. No one's around. They were before the angels came, but since the angels left there's nothing."

Dean's face hardened, and Castiel watched him warily. In the middle with the phone, Crowley asked, "Are you two going to tell the group why you're suddenly looking constipated?"

"What?" Sam asked. "Dean, Cas, what's going on?"

"Get out of there, Sam. Get out of Kansas City, right now," Dean ordered.

"Dude, why?"

"Because I said so, that's why!"

"No, Dean. You're not Dad! Tell me what the hell is going on."

"Sam," Dean cautioned.

"No, Dean!"

"Sam! Shut up, and I'll tell you!"

Sam's angry sigh was heard through the phone.

Dean forced calm into his voice. "The Croatoan virus is about to hit Kansas City. Maybe it already has, I'm not sure. Either way, you need to get back here right now."

Sam didn't answer for a minute. "How would you know that, Dean?" he asked slowly.

"Because I've seen it," Dean said.

"On TV?" Sam asked. "Weather reports and demonic signs and whatever?"

"No, in person," Dean said slowly. "Look, Sam, it's a long story. Just get back here, and I'll tell you all about it."

Sam was silent again, but Dean could almost hear his jaw set and the expression on his face. "Fine," he finally said.

"Alright," Dean said. "See you soon. Oh – and avoid Detroit!"

"Avoid Detroit?" Sam repeated. His voice sounded utterly done. "I am nowhere near Detroit, Dean!"

"Yeah, just stay away from it, alright?"

"Whatever," he huffed.

"Sam!" Castiel called so that Crowley did not hang up.

"Yeah, Cas?"

"Don't lead the angels here. They'll be following you, obviously. If you can, grab one and bring him, but only one. Don't be followed."

"Why do you need an angel, Cas?" Sam asked. His tone was so much lighter when addressing Castiel rather than Dean. It was almost conversational. Dean wanted to vomit at the level of trust it displayed.

"I should not explain my reasoning over the phone," Castiel glanced from Dean to Crowley and added wearily, "Return quickly. Please."

"Yeah, Cas, I will," Sam promised gently. "I guess I gotta go then." With another uncertain sigh, the line went dead, Crowley closed the phone.

"Care to explain what that was all about?" Crowley asked, looking from Castiel to Dean.

"You know why I want Sam to bring back an angel," Castiel stated.

"Obviously," Crowley huffed before he could keep talking. "I want to know what the big deal about Kansas City is."

"During the apocalypse," Dean began in a bored tone, "take one that is, Zachariah sent me to the future to see how horrible everything would get if I didn't say 'yes' to Michael."

Ground-shaking thunder erupted outside. Castiel's head jerked up to scrutinize the ceiling as if he could see the sky and the weather, but neither Dean nor Crowley noticed him.

"Kansas City, 2014. Five years at the time," Dean was saying. "Croatoan virus had killed pretty much everyone, and a deranged version of me led the suicide charge with Stoner Cas."

Castiel's head whipped to stare hard at Dean again. Crowley's eyes popped out of their sockets. "Stoner Cas?" "Though I do not understand it, I resent that reference." They spoke over each other. Crowley's outburst was a huge guffaw, and Castiel's statement had him laughing harder. Castiel was purely offended and glaring at Dean.

"If you don't understand it, why are you so offended?" Dean laughed, too.

"Because I do not throw stones," Castiel said. "I am no hypocrite."

"It's worse than that, Bible Boy," Crowley smirked.

"How so?"

"It means you did drugs – frequently and got really damn high," Dean explained in a deadpan to mimic Castiel's usual tone.

"I wouldn't–" Castiel started outraged.

"You did," Dean said.

"–become so like you!" Castiel finished.

Crowley's eyebrows shot up to merge with his hairline, and he stepped out the way, summoning popcorn into his hand again. Dean raised one eyebrow, seemingly impressed but also fuming. _Where did he get the right?_ Dean was screaming in his head. Still, Dean had to hand it to the angel because that was remark would have hit human-him exactly where Castiel probably wanted it to. Dean took a threatening step toward Castiel and watched as he swallowed past a lump in his throat. The angel was slowly realizing that he wasn't really an angel anymore but Dean was still a demon.

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I care," Castiel stated without hesitation, deciding to commit to his challenge.

He turned to leave, but Dean spun him around again by the shoulder and launched a fist at his face. Castiel caught it and twisted Dean's arm so that his palm opened and his shoulder dislocated. Dean yowled in pain and stomped petulantly on Castiel's foot to distract him. Before he could do the angel any worse, both he and Castiel were flown to opposite sides of the room.

"You're like children!" he exclaimed. "No wonder Moose insisted I babysit. You can't be left alone for a second. Now, both of you sit down and shut up." Dean tried to move anyway, and his head was thrown against the wall in consequence. "I said, 'stay down.'"

"Whatever, asshole," Dean muttered, popping his shoulder back into place and lounging against the wall. Castiel rearranged himself in a more comfortable but upright position and looked up at Crowley expectantly.

"Now," Crowley barked. "Dean will finish explaining. Then Castiel will go back to his room to cool off while Dean and I finish our lesson. Yeah? Good. Explain," Crowley ordered, glowering at Dean.

"Well, at this camp-base thing – camp: Camp Chie-ta-qua or something, I think – Cas and I were still going after Lucifer. Chuck was there, but the angels had abandoned us, so he didn't get visions anymore. Hey, how much toilet paper do we have?" Dean broke off to ask.

"What? Why?" Crowley asked.

"Humor me."

"I don't know. I think enough? There's only one person – uh, two people," Crowley frowned apologetically at Castiel, "who use it."

"Next time you go to the store, buy some," Dean commanded.

"But I just said that we're fine!"

"Just trust me," Dean insisted, his hands raised in surrender, flinching only slightly at a twinge in his shoulder.

"Well – whatever. Just keep going."

"Right, uh," Dean stalled, trying to think of where to continue. "Sam said 'yes' to Lucifer in Detroit. I don't know when or why but he did. Then, he, uh, killed me. That is, he killed future-me. Me-me then had a conversation with him. He claimed that future – the one with possessed Sammy and my death – it was inevitable. No matter what we did. We'd always end up… there," Dean finished slowly, lost in the past.

He had been so righteous back then, been so outraged by his future actions and decisions, especially the way he had treated Castiel. It was disgusting. The future that had played out in the end actually featured an even worse version of himself, and now that he was thinking about it, the demon now in Dean would have loved to laugh at the righteous reactions he would have received. The way he became a drunk after criticizing Bobby for it. The way he seemed to enjoy working with demons. The way he dragged Kevin into the mess that was the life of the Winchesters. The way he dragged Charlie in and let her run off to some unknown world with some crazy woman. Even before he was a demon, he'd done some truly stupid things.

"Dean!" Castiel called impatiently.

Dean shook his head and put on a grin. "Yeah, angel?"

"Keep talking."

"Wait, I thought you knew already?" Crowley questioned.

"I knew that Zachariah sent Dean to the future. I did not know what he saw. Dean had refused to tell me much," Castiel said. "He had been too broken up about it. He had cared."

Glaring up at Castiel through his lashes, Dean finished, "Yeah, well, that's it. I was a real asshole. You were a stoner who led orgies–" he ignored Castiel's indignant bristle "–Sam was the devil. Bobby was dead. Chuck managed the fort and whined about toilet paper. Croats were everywhere. We tried to kill the devil; the devil killed us. Zachariah sent me back. No," Dean stopped and glanced to Castiel, "you showed up and kicked Zachariah's ass so that he brought me back. Yeah. That sounds right."

"And now simply avoiding Kansas City is your solution?" Castiel asked.

"And Detroit, yeah," Dean nodded.

Castiel shook his head, and Dean thought he heard him mutter, "Pathetic demon."

"What do you want from me, Cas?" Dean challenged. "Going to either city would be stupid. We have no reason to be there, and things'll get even worse if we do. Ergo," he concluded dramatically, "we avoid."

Castiel looked insulted. "So, we don't help fight this virus? You have an obligation to help those people."

"No, I don't, Cas," Dean argued. "I have an obligation to kill monsters, not save people from zombie sickness."

"From a logistics standpoint alone, it'd be a suicide mission," Crowley offered with a shrug. "You'd probably get infected, and Dean and I would have to leave you. Now. I'm glad that's all cleared up. Dean, go back to the training room. Castiel, get something to eat."

Dean resisted the urge to challenge Crowley's authority and settled back to the room they were in earlier. It was in the very back of the bunker's basement, full of interesting weapons, some of which Dean was familiar with, others not so much. The walls were thin, should-be shiny steel that had rusted and become grimy over time. One of them was even lined with a mirror to improve your technique or something, as Dean thought. Mats were folded up in one of the back corners, but they didn't look very cushiony or useful in the slightest. In fact, they looked practically government-commissioned, and Dean really wanted to find out the story behind them.

Dean and Crowley had spent the first six or so hours of the day in here, going over the little things. First Dean learned how to levitate objects right next to him. Then he moved a yard away. Then another one and another, until he was succeeding from all the way across the room. After that, Crowley hid the object so Dean couldn't see it or so something was holding it down. As long as the obstructive object was pretty small, Dean had no problem. He'd simply move that one first. As the obstruction became larger, they thwarted Dean's efforts. That's when Crowley decided he had to demonstrate the procedure he had been so simply rattling off all morning.

By throwing Dean across the room with barely any effort.

"You've got to think big!" Crowley had said. "Even to move the small things."

"I can see a pretty small thing that I'd like to move," Dean had countered.

"Is that so?" Crowley laughed. "Take your best shot."

Of course, Crowley very easily held off all of Dean's tries. Sometimes, concern crossed his face, as if Dean were about to succeed; but then nothing would happen, and Crowley would smile mockingly again. After a few hours of Dean failing and Crowley demonstrating, the walls of the room had dented and wrinkled so much that they looked like tinfoil rather than steel. The only wall left in peace was the mirrored one, and Dean got the feeling he enjoyed watching himself beat Dean up, the arrogant ass.

"So," Crowley announced his presence while Dean was examining the hole that Crowley's head put in the wall. "What have you learned?"

"That you're a dick," Dean answered without turning around, "but I already know that, so I guess nothing."

"Don't be smart, Dean, it's not like you," Crowley taunted. Dean didn't respond, knowing it'd annoy the other demon more.

"You're an emotional dimwit!" Crowley shouted at him. "That's your problem. Hell, it's the source of all of your problems! If you want to be a demon, you need to get rid of your feelings; they're disgusting."

Dean turned around slowly. "But I do best when I'm angry," he replied seriously.

"No, you do best when you're determined," Crowley corrected. "Same for ghosts and humans: anger leads to ruin; determination gets things done."

Dean contemplated this by frowning at the floor. As he came to the decision to agree, he was being flung across the room again. Crowley chuckled, watching him get up slowly. The day of collisions was starting to catch up to him, so although that was just a teaser toss, his body hurt everywhere.

"Sorry," Crowley laughed. "I just had to."

Suddenly, he was flying into the mirror. "Sorry," Dean smirked. "So, did I." _Watch that_, he added to himself. Dean sat down on the pile of mats to watch Crowley struggle to his feet. The older demon was having a very difficult time with the shattered glass surrounding him, and his yelps really made Dean's day so much better. When he finally stood, shook the glass from his suit, and magicked it perfect again, he used his little front-pocket handkerchief to dab at the small cuts on his hands and forehead. Dean shook his head, deciding that Sam was not the only girl in the bunker anymore.

"What are you laughing at?" Crowley demanded.

"You," Dean answered simply, rolling his eyes.

"Shut up," Crowley complained. "You're going to clean this mess up now!"

"But, Mom!" Dean whined.

"I said, 'shut up'!" Crowley exclaimed. Dean wanted to laugh, but he suddenly found his jaw stuck as if with peanut butter.

"You're going to clean this up in the conventional way of demons," Crowley ordered.

Dean mumbled something incoherent as he fought for control of his mouth. Finally, he was able to stretch his jaw like a snake and told Crowley's retreating figure, "No! You're the one who made it." He imagined a wall in Crowley's path, and Crowley walked into the invisible barrier. "You do it." Dean then walked past him with a skip in his step. His mood was greatly elevated by his success over Crowley, and he was going to celebrate with a hot bath. To get to that bath, he just had to shove through an eavesdropping angel's shoulder.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN:** _So, I secured an internship this summer, and I've been working there since the late June; yet mostly what I do during my day is write fanfiction and other short stories and then email them to myself. So much for "real-life, real-job" experience. I'm basically getting paid to do what I would do if I just stayed home every day (minus singing obnoxiously, plus the occasional real assignment). Anyway, r__eviews would be lovely..._

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"You lost them?" Michael bellowed. "I handed them to you!"

"The Winchester used the banishing sigil, sir, I'm sorry!" Adriel whimpered.

"I sent fifteen angels after two men, and you only managed to dispose of the insignificant one?" he roared.

"He was in the way! He backed the Winchester into the corner to protect him while he drew the sigil."

"Damn fools! You damn, useless fools! How many angels did you lose?"

"Well, the man was able to kill three before he was smote, and the Winchester killed four before he banished them–"

"That's only seven Adriel," Michael snapped. "Only six angels came back."

"There was another man there. We didn't know. Anapiel fell on Asariel's sword by mistake–"

"Get out!" Michael's voice was suddenly deadly calm. "Get out of my sight now."

Adriel scurried from the office, dropping his report on the floor as he tripped over his own feet in his haste. Everyone on the floor shot to attention when they saw Adriel, knowing Michael wasn't far behind. The archangel allowed the unfortunate messenger to find his place in the ranks before stepping up to the judge's seat and leveling everyone with a glare.

"Is it really this hard to capture or kill two ridiculous mud monkeys?" he hissed. The congregation frantically shook their heads. "Samuel Winchester will lead you to Dean Winchester. Dean Winchester will lead you to Castiel." The names slithered unpleasantly from his tongue as if they were poison in his mouth, and he spoke as if he were lowering himself as far as Hell just to address the crowd. "I'm finding them for you, you incapable morons! All you must do is capture them." Michael paused and swept his glare across the room. "Do you understand?"

In unison, the angels answered affirmative.

"Good. Now get to work!" Michael shouted. He turned his back, and most of the angels ran to their desks. One angel stayed. With a conniving smirk to Adriel, he raised his voice to claim Michael's attention.

"What about the prophet, sir?"

All of the angels froze. Michael stopped abruptly and turned very slowly. Adriel tried to slink away, but found he couldn't move after his first backward step. The archangel studied the lesser one who had spoken, taking in his neatly combed blond hair, sharp brown eyes, and alert posture. His hands were folded behind his back at attention. His suit was freshly pressed with a long, skinny black tie, knotted perfectly under his chin at the collar of a simple white dress suit.

Michael sensed his ambition immediately and took a liking to him.

He smiled and answered, "The prophet?" in a hard-lined conversational tone.

"Surely, Adriel mentioned that he was there?" the angel asked.

"No, he did not."

"I was a part of the Winchester raid, sir, and I can assure you that the prophet was with Sam Winchester."

"Adriel," Michael called amiably, "did you lie to me?"

"No, sir, of course not, sir," Adriel instantly assured him, "though I may have forgotten to mention tha–sir!" he corrected himself even faster. "Sir, please, wait! You told me to leave before I could mention it."

"Go find something to do," Michael ordered Adriel. "You," he told the ambitious angel, "come with me."

"What is your name?" Michael asked once he was settled.

The new angel stood in front of his desk, still rigid and proper. "Vassago, sir."

"On which day were you born, Vassago?"

"The sixth day, sir."

"A fine day," Michael nodded. Vassago allowed himself to smile.

"Do you know about the apocalypse, Vassago?"

"Of course, sir."

"And you support openly the society and structure I wish to return to the world of the mud monkeys here?"

"Definitely, sir."

"Good. Very good. I have the perfect job for you then."

"When may I start, sir?"

"Immediately. You are to go find the Winchester again. He's driving somewhere; he can't be far from that destroyed house yet. Tell him you wish to be allies, that you're searching for the rebel. Give him this. I'll have someone else following you to report wherever you go when you find where they are hiding and whatever else progress you make."

"What shall I do when I find them?" Vassago asked.

"In good time," Michael said, handing him a vial.

"Is this–?" Vassago couldn't finish his question. Instead, he stared wondrously at the blue and purple phenomenon pulsing in the tiny vial emitting a mesmerizing white light.

Michael hummed confirmation and said, "Tell them you found it. That's what you do, isn't find things? You found it in Heaven before the fall."

"Yes, sir, but," Vassago swallowed and forced himself to look at Michael again, "where did you find it?"

"In Bartholomew's files," Michael said. "Apparently, he led a successful raid that no one knew about, not even the Scribe."


End file.
